$^ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


J' 


/ 


^ 


^/^f 


SAXE   HOLM'S 


STORIES 


NEW    YORK 
SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG,  &   COMPANY 

1878 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  m  the  year  1873,  bf 

ScRiBNER,  Armstrong,  and  Company, 

In  the  OflBce  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  WashingtOB 


RIVERSIDE,    CAMBRIDGE: 

•TBREOTYPED     AND     PRINTED     BT 

H-    O.    HOUGHTON    AND   COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


-4- 


PAca 
DRAXY   miller's    DOWRY       .......         I 

THE   elder's    wife 98 

WHOSE   WIFE    WAS    SHE  ? l6$ 

THE    ONE-LEGGED    DANCERS 212 

HOW    ONE    WOMAN    KEPT   HER    HUSBAND     .      .274 

ESTHER   WYNN's   LOVE-LETTERS 313 


DRAXY    MILLER'S    DOWRY. 


PART  I. 

HEN  Draxy  Miller's  father  was  a  boy,  he 
read  a  novel  in  which  the  heroine  was  a 
Polish  girl,  named  Darachsa.  The  name 
stamped  itself  indelibly  upon  his  imagination  ;  and 
when,  at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  he  took  his  first-born 
daughter  in  his  arms,  his  first  words  were  —  "I  want 
her  called  Darachsa." 

^'  What ! "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  turning  sharply 
round,  and  looking  out  above  his  spectacles  ;  "  what 
heathen  kind  of  a  name  is  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Reuben !  "  groaned  a  feeble  voice  from  the 
baby's  mother;  and  the  nurse  muttered  .audibly,  as 
she  left  the  room,  "  There  ain't  never  no  luck  comes 
of  them  outlandish  names." 

The  whole  village  was  in  a  state  of  excitement  be- 
fore night.  Poor  Reuben  Miller  had  never  before 
been  the  object  of  half  so  much  interest.  His  slowly 
dwindling  fortunes,  the  mysterious  succession  of  his 
ill-lucks,  had  not  much  stirred  the  hearts  of  the  peo- 
ple. He  was  a  reticent  man  ;  he  loved  books,  and 
had  hungered  for  them  all  his  life ;  his  townsmen  un- 
consciously resented  what  they  pretended  to  despis'=*  ; 


2  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

and  so  it  had  slowly  come  about  that  in  the  village 
where  his  father  had  lived  and  died,  and  where  he 
himself  had  grown  up^  and  seemed  likely  to  live  and 
die,  Reuben  Miller  was  a  lonely  man,  and  came  and 
went  almost  as  a  stranger  might  come  and  go.  His 
wife  was  simply  a  shadow  and  echo  of  himself ;  one 
of  those  clinging,  tender,  unselfish,  will-less  women, 
who  make  pleasant,  and  affectionate,  and  sunny  wives 
enough  foi  rich,  prosperous,  unsentimental  husbands, 
but  who  are  millstones  about  the  necks  of  sensitive, 
impressionable,  unsuccessful  men.  If  Jane  Miller 
had  been  a  strong,  determined  woman,  Reuben  would 
not  have  been  a  failure.  The  only  thing  he  had 
needed  in  life  had  been  persistent  purpose  and  cour- 
age. The  right  sort  of  wife  would  have  given  him 
both.  But  when  he  was  discouraged,  baffled,  Jane 
clasped  her  hands,  sat  down,  and  looked  into  his  face 
with  streaming  eyes.  If  he  smiled,  she  smiled  ;  but 
that  was  just  when  it  was  of  least  consequence  that 
she  should  smile.  So  the  twelve  years  of  their  mar- 
ried life  had  gone  on  slowly,  very  slowly,  but  still 
surely,  from  bad  to  worse  ;  nothing  prospered  in  Reu- 
ben's hands.  The  farm  which  he  had  inherited  from 
his  father  was  large,  but  not  profitable.  He  tried  too 
lono^  to  work  the  whole  of  it,  and  then  he  sold  the 
parts  which  he  ought  to  have  kept.  He  sunk  a  great 
portion  of  his  little  capital  in  a  flour-mill,  which  prom- 
ised to  be  a  great  success,  paid  well  for  a  couple  of 
years,  and  then  burnt  down,  uninsured.  He  tock  a 
contract  for  building  one  section  of  a  canal,  which  was 
to  pass  through  part  of  his  land ;  sub-contractors 
cheated  him    and  he,  in   his  honesty,  almost  ruined 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  3 

himself  to  right  their  wrong.  Then  he  opened  a  little 
store  ;  here,  also,  he  failed.  He  was  too  honest,  too 
sympathizing,  too  inert.  His  day-book  was  a  curios* 
ity ;  he  had  a  vein  of  humor  which  no  amount  of  mis- 
fortune could  quench  ;  and  he  used  to  enter  under  the 
head  of  "  given  "  all  the  purchases  which  he  knew  were 
not  likely  to  be  paid  for.  It  was  at  sight  of  this  book, 
one  day,  that  Jane  Miller,  for  the  first  and  only  time 
in  her  life,  lost  her  temper  with  Reuben. 

"Well,  I  must  say,  Reuben  Miller,  if  I  die  for  it," 
said  she,  "  I  haven't  had  so  much  as  a  pound  of  white 
sugar  nor  a  single  lemon  in  my  house  for  two  years, 
and  I  do  think  it's  a  burnin'  shame  for  you  to  go  on 
sellin'  'em  to  them  shiftless  Greens,  that'll  never  pay 
you  a  cent,  and  you  know  it !  " 

Reuben  was  sitting  on  the  counter  smoking  his  pipe 
and  reading  an  old  tattered  copy  of  Dryden's  transla- 
tion of  Virgil.  He  lifted  his  clear  blue  eyes  in  aston- 
ishment, put  down  his  pipe,  and,  slowly  swinging  his 
long  legs  over  the  counter,  caught  Jane  by  the  waist, 
put  both  his  arms  round  her,  and  said,  — 

"Why,  mother,  what's  come  over  you  !  You  know 
poor  little  Eph's  dyin'  of  that  white  swellin'.  You 
wouldn't  have  me  refuse  his  mother  anything  we've 
got,  would  you  ? " 

Jane  Miller  walked  back  to  the  house  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  but  her  homely  sallow  face  was  transfigured 
by  love  as  she  went  about  her  work,  thinking  to  her- 
self, — 

"  There  never  was  such  a  man's  Reuben,  anyhow. 
I  guess  he'll  get  interest  one  o'  these  days  for  all  he's 
lent  the  Lord,  first  and  last,  without  anybody's  knowin' 

it" 


4  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

But  the  Lord  has  His  own  system  of  reckoning  ccm- 
pound  interest,  and  His  ways  of  paying  are  not  our 
ways.  He  gave  no  visible  sign  of  recognition  of  in- 
debtedness to  Reuben.  Things  went  harder  and 
harder  with  the  Millers,  until  they  had  come  to  such 
a  pass  that  when  Reuben  Miller  went  after  the  doctor, 
in  the  early  dawn  of  the  day  on  which  little  Draxy  was 
born,  he  clasped  his  hands  in  sorrow  and  humiliation 
before  he  knocked  at  the  doctor's  door  ;  and  his  only 
words  were  hard  words  for  a  man  of  sensitiveness  and 
pride  to  speak  :  — 

"  Doctor  Cobb,  will  you  come  over  to  my  wife  ?  I 
don't  dare  to  be  sure  I  can  ever  pay  you  ;  but  if 
there's  anything  in  the  store  "  — 

"  Pshaw,  pshaw,  Reuben,  don't  speak  of  that ;  you'll 
be  all  right  in  a  few  years,"  said  the  kind  old  doctor, 
who  had  known  Reuben  from  his  boyhood,  and  under- 
stood him  far  better  than  any  one  else  did. 

And  so  little  Draxy  was  born. 

"It's  a  mercy  it's  a  girl  at  last,"  said  the  village 
gossips.  "  Mis'  Miller's  had  a  hard  time  with  them 
four  great  boys,  and  Mr.  Miller  so  behindhand  allers." 

"And  who  but  Reuben  Miller'd  ever  think  of  givin' 
a  Christian  child  such  a  name  !  "  they  added. 

But  what  the  name  was  nobody  rightly  made  out ; 
nor  even  whether  it  had  been  actually  given  to  the 
baby,  or  had  only  been  talked  of;  and  between  curi- 
osity and  antagonism,  the  villagers  were  so  drawn  to 
Reuben  Miller's  store,  that  it  began  to  look  quite  like 
a  run  of  custom. 

"  If  I  hold  out  a  spell  on  namin'  her,"  said  Reuben, 
as  in  the  twilight  of  the  third  day  he  sat  'by  his  wife's 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  J 

bedside  ;  "  if  I  hold  out  a  spell  on  namin'  her,  I  shall 
get  all  the  folks  in  the  district  into  the  store,  and  sell 
out  clean,"  and  he  laughed  quizzically,  and  stroked 
the  little  mottled  face  which  lay  on  the  pillow. 
*'  There's  Squire  Williams  and  Mis'  Conkey  both  been 
in  this  afternoon  ;  and  Mis'  Conkey  took  ten  pounds 
of  that  old  Hyson  tea  you  thought  I'd  never  sell ; 
and  Squire  Williams,  he  took  the  last  of  those  new- 
fangled  churns,  and  says  he,  '  I  expect  you'll  want  to 
drive  trade  a  little  brisker,  Reuben,  now  there's  a  little 
girl  to  be  provided  for  ;  and,  by  the  way,  what  are  you 
going  to  call  her  ? ' 

*'  *  Oh,  it's  quite  too  soon  to  setde  that,'  said  I,  as 
if  I  hadn't  a  name  in  my  head  yet.  And  then  Mis' 
Conkey  spoke  up  and  said:  'Well,  I  did  hear  you 
were  going  to  name  her  after  a  heathen  goddess  that 
nobody  over  heard  of,  and  I  do  hope  you  will  consider 
her  feelings  when  she  grows  up.' 

"  *  I  hope  I  always  shall,  Mis'  Conkey,'  said  I ;  and 
she  didn't  know  what  to  say  next.  So  she  picked  up 
her  bundle  of  tea,  and  they  stepped  off  together  quite 
dignified. 

"  But  I  think  we'll  call  her  Darachsa,  in  spite  of  'em 
all,  Jane,"  added  Reuben  with  a  hesitating  half  laugh. 

"  Oh,  Reuben !  "  Jane  said  again.  It  was  the 
strongest  remonstrance  on  which  she  ever  ventured. 
She  did  not  like  the  name  ;  but  she  adored  Reuben. 
So  when  the  baby  was  three  months  old,  she  was  car- 
ried into  the  meeting-house  in  a  faded  blue  cashmere 
cloak,  and  baptized  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and 
the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  "Darachsa  Lawton 
Miller." 


6  SAXE  HOLM'S  STOA'/£S. 

Jaoe  Miller's  babies  always  thrived.  The  passive 
acquiescence  of  her  nature  was  a  blessing  to  them. 
The  currents  of  their  blood  were  never  rendered  un- 
heal thful  by  overwrought  nerves  or  disturbed  temper 
in  their  mother.  Their  infancy  was  as  placid  and 
quiet  as  if  they  had  been  kittens.  Not  until  they  were 
old  enough  to  understand  words,  and  to  comprehend 
deprivations,  did  they  suffer  because  of  their  poverty. 
Then  a  serious  look  began  to  settle  upon  their  faces ; 
they  learned  to  watch  their  father  and  mother  wist- 
fully, and  to  wonder  what  was  wrong ;  their  childhood 
was  very  short. 

Before  Draxy  was  ten  years  old  she  had  become  her 
father's  inseparable  companion,  confidant,  and  helper. 
He  wondered,  sometimes  almost  in  terror,  what  it 
meant,  that  he  could  say  to  this  little  child  what  he 
could  not  say  to  her  mother ;  that  he  often  detected 
himself  in  a  desire  to  ask  of  this  babe  advice  or  sug- 
gestion which  he  never  dreamed  of  asking  from  his 
wife. 

But  Draxy  was  wise.  She  had  the  sagacity  which 
comes  from  great  tenderness  and  loyalty,  combined 
with  a  passionate  nature.  In  such  a  woman's  soul 
there  is  sometimes  an  almost  supernatural  instinct. 
She  will  detect  danger  and  devise  safety  with  a  rapid- 
ty  and  ingenuity  which  are  incredible.  But  to  such  a 
nature  will  also  come  the  subtlest  and  deepest  despairs 
of  which  the  human  heart  is  capable.  The  same  in- 
stinct which  foresees  arid  devises  for  the  loved  ones 
will  also  recognize  their  most  hidden  traits,  their  ut- 
most possibilities,  their  inevitable  limitations,  with  a 
com.pleteness    and   infallibility  akin    to    that  of  God 


DKAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  J 

Himself.  Jane  Miller^  all  her  life  long,  believed  in 
the  possibility  of  Reuben's  success ;  charged  his  fail- 
ures to  outside  occasions,  and  hoped  always  in  a  bet- 
ter day  to  come.  Draxy,  early  in  her  childhood,  in- 
stinctively felt,  what  she  was  far  too  young  consciously 
to  know,  that  her  father  would  never  be  a  happier 
man  ;  that  ^'  things "  would  always  go  against  him. 
She  had  a  deeper  reverence  for  the  uprightness  and 
sweet  simplicity  of  his  nature  than  her  mother  ever 
could  have  had.  She  comprehended,  Jane  believed  ; 
Draxy  felt,  Jane  saw.  Without  ever  having  heard  of 
such  a  thing  as  fate,  little  Draxy  recognized  that  her 
father  was  fighting  with  it,  and  that  fate  was  the 
stronger !  Her  little  arms  clasped  closer  and  closer 
round  his  neck,  and  her  serene  blue  eyes,  so  like  his, 
and  yet  so  wondrously  unlike,  by  reason  of  their  latent 
fire  and  strength,  looked  this  unseen  enemy  steadfastly 
in  the  face,  day  by  day. 

She  was  a  wonderful  child.  Her  physical  health 
was  perfect.  The  first  ten  years  of  her  life  were  spent 
either  out  of  doors,  or  in  her  father's  lap.  He  would 
not  allow  her  to  attend  the  district  school ;  all  she 
kne\^  she  learned  from  him.  Reuben  Miller  had  never 
looked  into  an  English  grammar  or  a  history,  but  he 
knew  Shakespeare  by  heart,  and  much  of  Homer ;  a 
few  odd  volumes  of  Walter  Scott's  novels,  some  old 
voyages,  a  big  family  Bible,  and  a  copy  of  Byron,  were 
the  only  other  books  in  his  house.  As  Draxy  grew 
older,  Reuben  now  and  then  borrowed  from  the  minis- 
ter books  which  he  thought  would  do  her  good  j  but 
the  child  and  he  both  loved  Homer  and  the  Bible  so 
much  better  than  any  later  books,  that  they  soon  drifted 


8  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES, 

back  to  them.  It  was  a  little  sad,  except  that  it  was 
so  beautiful,  to  see  the  isolated  life  these  two  led  in 
the  family.  The  boys  were  good,  sturd}^,  noisy  boys. 
They  went  to  school  in  the  winter  and  worked  on  the 
farm  in  the  summer,  like  all  farmers'  boys.  Reuben, 
the  oldest,  was  eighteen  when  Draxy  was  ten  ;  he  was 
hired,  by  a  sort  of  indenture,  for  three  years,  on  a 
neighboring  farm,  and  came  home  only  on  alternate 
Sundays.  Jamie,  and  Sam,  and  Lawton  were  at  home  ; 
young  as  they  were,  they  did  men's  service  in  many 
ways.  Jamie  had  a  rare  gift  for  breaking  horses,  and 
for  several  years  the  only  ready  money  which  the  li'ttle 
farm  had  yielded  was  the  price  of  the  colts  which 
Jamie  raised  and  trained  so  admirably  that  they  sold 
well.  The  other  two  boys  were  strong  and  willing, 
but  they  had  none  of  their  father's  spirituality,  or  their 
mother's  gentleness.  Thus,  in  spite  of  Reuben  Miller's 
deep  love  for  his  children,  he  was  never  at  ease  in  his 
bo3's'  presence  ;  and,  as  they  grew  older,  nothing  but 
the  influence  of  their  mother's  respect  for  their  father 
prevented  their  having  an  impatient  contempt  for  his 
unlikeness  to  the  busy,  active,  thrifty  farmers  of  the 
neighborhood. 

It  was  a  strange  picture  that  the  little  kitchen  pre- 
sented on  a  winter  evening.  Reuben  sat  always  on 
the  left  hand  of  the  big  fire-place,  with  a  book  on  his 
knees.  Draxy  was  curled  up  on  an  old-fashioned 
cherry-wood  stand  close  to  his  chair,  but  so  high  that 
^he  rested  her  little  dimpled  chin  on  his  head.  A 
tallow  candle  stood  on  a  high  bracket,  made  from  a 
fungus  which  Reuben  had  found  in  the  woods.  When 
the  candle  flared  and  dripped,  Draxy  sprang  up  on  the 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  9 

stand,  and,  poised  on  one  foot,  reached  over  her  father's 
head  to  snuff  it.  She  looked  like  a  dainty  fairy  half- 
floating  in  the  air,  but  nobody  knew  it.  Jane  sat  in  a 
high-backed  wooden  rocking-chair,  which  had  a  flag 
bottom  and  a  ruffled  calico  cushion,  and  could  only 
rock  a  very  few  inches  back  and  forth,  owing  to  the  loss 
of  half  of  one  of  the  rockers.  For  the  first  part  of 
the  evening,  Jane  always  knitted ;  but  by  eight  o'clock 
the  hands  relaxed,  the  needles  dropped,  the  tired  head 
fell  back  against  the  chair,  and  she  was  fast  asleep. 

The  boys  were  by  themselves  in  the  farther  corner 
of  the  room,  playing  checkers  or  doing  sums,  or  read- 
ing the  village  newspaper.  Reuben  and  Draxy  were 
as  alone  as  if  the  house  had  been  empty.  Sometimes 
he  read  to  her  in  a  whisper  ;  sometimes  he  pointed 
slowly  along  the  lines  in  silence,  and  the  wise  little 
eyes  from  above  followed  intently.  All  questions  and 
explanations  w'ere  saved  till  the  next  morning,  when 
Draxy,  still  curled  up  like  a  kitten,  would  sit  mounted 
on  the  top  of  the  buckwheat  barrel  in  the  store,  while 
her  father  lay  stretched  on  the  counter,  smoking.  They 
never  talked  to  each  other,  except  when  no  one  could 
hear ;  that  is,  they  never  spoke  in  words  ;  there  was 
mysterious  and  incessant  communication  between  them 
whenever  they  were  together_,  as  there  is  between  all 
true  lovers. 

At  nine  o'clock  Reuben  always  shut  the  book,  and 
said^"Kiss  me,  little  daughter."  Draxy  kissed  him, 
and  said,  "  Good-night,  father  dear,"  and  that  was  all. 
The  other  children  called  him  "  pa,"  as  was  the  universal 
custom  in  the  village.  But  Draxy  even  in  her  babyhood 
bad  never  once  used  the  word.     Until  she  was  seven 


I O  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

or  eight  years  old  she  called  him  "  Farver  ; "  after  that, 
always  "  father  dear."  Then  Reuben  would  wake  Jane 
up,  sighing  usually,  "  Poor  mother,  how  tired  she  is  !  " 
Sometimes  Jane  said  when  she  kissed  Draxy,  at  the 
door  of  her  little  room,  "  Why  don't  you  kiss  your  pa 
for  good-night  ? " 

"  I  kissed  father  before  you  waked  up,  ma,"  was  al- 
ways Draxy's  quiet  answer. 

And  so  the  years  went  on.  There  was  much  dis- 
comfort, much  deprivation  in  Reuben  Miller's  house. 
Food  was  not  scarce ;  the  farm  yielded  enough,  such 
as  it  was,  very  coarse  and  without  variety  ;  but  money 
was  hard  to  get ;  the  store  seemed  to  be  absolutely  un- 
remunerative,  though  customers  were  not  wanting  ;  and 
the  store  and  the  farm  were  all  that  Reuben  Miller  had 
in  the  world.  But  in  spite  of  the  poor  food  ;  in  spite 
of  the  lack  of  most  which  money  buys  ;  in  spite  of 
the  loyal,  tender,  passionate  despair  of  her  devotion  to 
her  father,  Draxy  grew  fairer  and  fairer,  stronger  and 
stronger.  At  fourteen  her  physique  was  that  of  superb 
womanhood.  She  had  inherited  her  body  wholly  from 
her  father.  For  generations  back,  the  Millers  had  been 
marked  for  their  fine  frames.  The  men  were  all  over 
six  feet  tall,  and  magnificently  made  ;  and  the  women 
were  much  above  the  average  size  and  strength.  On 
Draxy's  fourteenth  birthday  she  weighed  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  and  measured  five  feet  six  inches  in 
height.  Her  coloring  v/as  that  of  an  English  girl,  and 
her  bright  brown  hair  fell  below  her  waist  in  thick 
masses.  To  see  the  face  of  a  simple-hearted  child, 
eager  but  serene,  determined  but  lovingly  gentle,  sur- 
rounded   and    glorified    by   such   splendid    physical 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  \\ 

Womanhood,  was  a  rare  sight.  Reuben  Miller's  eyes 
filled  with  tears  often  as  he  secretly  watched  his  daugh- 
ter, and  said  to  himself,  "  Oh,  what  is  to  be  her  fate ! 
what  man  is  worthy  of  the  wife  she  will  be  ?  "  But  the 
village  people  saw  only  a  healthy,  handsome  girl, 
"  overgrown,"  they  thought,  and  "  as  queer  as  her  father 
before  her,"  they  said,  for  Draxy,  very  early  in  life,  had 
withdrawn  herself  somewhat  from  the  companionship 
of  the  young  people  of  the  town. 

As  for  Jane,  she  loved  and  reverenced  Draxy,  very 
much  as  she  did  Reuben,  with  touching  devotion,  but 
without  any  real  comprehension  of  her  nature.  If  she 
sometimes  felt  a  pang  in  seeing  how  much  more  Reu- 
ben talked  with  Draxy  than  with  her,  how  much  more 
he  sought  to  be  with  Draxy  than  with  her,  she  stifled 
it,  and,  reproaching  herself  for  disloyalty  to  each,  set 
herself  to  work  for  them  harder  than  before. 

In  Draxy's  sixteenth  year  the  final  blow  of  misfor- 
tune fell  upon  Reuben  Miller's  head. 

A  brother  of  Jane's,  for  whom,  in  an  hour  of  foolish 
generosity,  Reuben  had  indorsed  a  note  of  a  consider- 
able amount,  failed.  Reuben's  farm  was  already  heavily 
mortgaged.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  sell 
it.  Purchasers  were  not  plenty  nor  eager  ;  everybody 
knew  that  the  farm  must  be  sold  for  whatever  it  would 
bring,  and  each  man  who  thought  of  buying  hoped  to 
profit  somewhat,  in  a  legitimate  and  Christian  way,  by 
Reuben's  extremity. 

Reuben's  courage  would  have  utterly  forsaken  him 
now,  except  for  Draxy's  calmness.  Jane  was  utterly 
unnerved ;  wept  silently  from  morning  till  night,  and 
jnplored  Reuben  to  see  her  brother's  creditors,  and 


[  2  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

beg  them  to  release  him  from  his  obligation.  But 
Draxy,  usually  so  gentle,  grew  almost  stern  when  such 
suggestions  were  made. 

"You  don't  understand,  ma,"  she  said,  with  flushing 
cheeks.  "  It  is  a  promise.  Father  must  pay  it.  He 
cannot  ask  to  have  it  given  back  to  him." 

But  with  all  Draxy's  inflexibility  of  resolve,  she  could 
not  help  being  disheartened.  She  could  not  see  how 
they  were  to  live  ;  the  three  rooms  over  the  store  could 
easily  be  fitted  up  into  an  endurable  dwelling-place  \ 
but  what  was  to  supply  the  food  which  the  farm  had 
hitherto  given  them  t  There  was  literally  no  way  open 
for  a  man  or  a  woman  to  earn  money  in  that  little 
farming  village.  Each  family  took  care  of  itself  and 
hired  no  service,  except  in  the  short  season  of  haying. 
Draxy  was  an  excellent  seamstress,  but  she  knew  very 
well  that  the  price  of  all  the  sewing  hired  in  the  village 
in  a  year  would  not  keep  them  from  starving.  The 
store  must  be  given  up,  because  her  father  would  have 
no  money  with  which  to  buy  goods.  In  fact,  for  a  long 
time,  most  of  his  purchases  had  been  made  by  exchang- 
ing the  spare  produce  of  his  farm  at  large  stores  in  the 
neighboring  towns.  Still  Draxy  never  wavered,  and 
because  she  did  not  waver  Reuben  did  not  die.  The 
farm  was  sold  at  auction,  with  the  stock,  the  utensils^ 
and  all  of  the  house-furniture  which  was  not  needed 
to  make  the  store  chambers  habitable.  The  buyer 
boasted  in  the  village  that  he  had  not  given  more  than 
two  thirds  of  the  real  value  of  the  place.  After  Reu- 
ben's debts  were  all  paid,  there  remained  just  one 
thousand  dollars  to  be  put  into  the  bank. 

"  Why,  father  !    That  is  a  fortune,"  said  Draxy,  when 


DRAXY  MILLER* S  DOWRY.  1 3 

he  told  her.  '^  I  did  not  suppose  we  should  have  any- 
thing, and  it  is  glorious  not  to  owe  any  man  a  cent." 

It  was  early  in  April  when  the  Millers  moved  into 
the  ''  store  chambers."  The  buyer  of  their  farm  was 
a  hard-hearted,  penurious  man,  a  deacon  of  the  church 
in  which  Draxy  had  been  baptized.  He  had  never 
been  known  to  give  a  penny  to  any  charity  excepting 
Foreign  Missions.  His  wife  and  children  had  never 
received  at  his  hands  the  smallest  gift.  But  even  his 
heart  was  touched  by  Draxy's  cheerful  acquiescence 
in  the  hard  change,  and  her  pathetic  attempts  to  make 
the  new  home  pleasant.  The  next  morning  after  Dea- 
con White  took  possession,  he  called  out  over  the  fence 
to  poor  Reuben,  who  stood  listlessly  on  the  store  steps, 
trying  not  to  look  across  at  the  house  which  had  been 
his. 

"  I  say,  Miller,  that  gal  o'  your'n  is  what  I  call  the 
right  sort  o'  woman^  up  an'  down.  I  hain't  said  much 
to  her,  but  I've  noticed  that  she  set  a  heap  by  this 
garding ;  an'  I  expect  she'll  miss  the  flowers  more'n 
anything;  now  my  womenfolks  they  won't  have  any- 
thin'  to  do  with  such  truck  ;  an'  if  she's  a  mind  to  take 
care  on't  jest's  she  used  ter,  I'm  willin'  ;  I  guess  we 
shall  be  the  gainers  on't." 

"  Thank  you,  Deacon  White ;  Draxy  '11  be  very 
glad,"  was  all  Reuben  could  reply.  Something  in  his 
tone  touched  the  man's  flinty  heart  still  more  ;  and 
before  he  half  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say,  he  had 
added,  — 

'^  An'  there's  the  vegetable  part  on't,  too,  Miller.  I 
never  was  no  hand  to  putter  with  garden  sass.  If 
you'll  jest  keep  that  up  and  go  halves,  fair  and  reg'lar^ 
jTou're  welcome." 


14  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

This  was  tangible  help.     Reuben's  face  lighted  up. 

"  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,"  he  replied. 
"  That'll  be  a  great  help  to  me  ;  and  I  reckon  you'll 
like  our  vegetables^  too,"  he  said,  half  smiling,  for  he 
knew  very  well  that  nothing  but  potatoes  and  turnips 
had  been  seen  on  Deacon  White's  table  for  years. 

Then  Reuben  went  to  find  Draxy ;  when  he  told 
her,  the  color  came  into  her  face,  and  she  shut  both 
her  hands  with  a  quick,  nervous  motion,  which  was 
habitual  to  her  under  excitement. 

"  Oh,  father,  we  can  almost  live  off  the  garden," 
said  she.     "  I  told  you  we  should  not  starve." 

But  still  new  sorrows,  and  still  greater  changes,  were 
in  store  for  the  poor,  disheartened  family.  In  June  a 
malignant  fever  broke  out  in  the  village,  and  in  one 
short  month  Reuben  and  Jane  had  laid  their  two 
youngest  boys  in  the  grave-yard.  There  was  a  dogged 
look,  which  was  not  all  sorrow,  on  Reuben's  face  as  he 
watched  the  sexton  fill  up  the  last  grave.  .  Sam  and 
Jamie,  at  any  rate,  would  not  know  any  more  of  the 
discouragement  and  hardship  of  life. 

Jane,  too,  mourned  her  boys  not  as  mothers  mourn 
whose  sons  have  a  birthright  of  gladness.  Jane  was 
very  tired  of  the  world. 

Draxy  was  saddened  by  the  strange,  solemn  pres- 
ence of  death.  But  her  brothers  had  not  been  her 
companions.  She  began  suddenly  to  feel  a  sense  of 
new  and  greater  relationship  to  them,  now  that  she 
thought  of  them  as  angels  ;  she  was  half  terrified  and 
bewildered  at  the  feeling  that  now,  for  the  first  time, 
Ihey  were  near  to  her. 

On  the  evening  after  Sam's  funeral,  as  Reuben  was 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  1 5 

sitting  on  the  store  steps,  with  his  head  buried  in  his 
hands,  a  neighbor  drove  up  and  threw  him  a  letter. 

"  It's  been  lyin'  in  the  office  a  w^eek  or  more,  Merrill 
said,  and  he  reckoned  I'd  better  bring  it  up  to  you,"  he 
called  out,  as  he  drove  on. 

"  It  might  lie  there  forever,  for  all  my  goin'  after  it," 
thought  Reuben  to  himself,  as  he  picked  it  up  from  the 
dust ;  "it's  no  good  news,  I'll  be  bound." 

But  it  was  good  news.  The  letter  was  from  Jane's 
oldest  sister,  who  had  married  only  a  few  years  before, 
and  gone  to  live  in  a  sea-port  town  on  the  New  Eng- 
land coast.  Her  husband  was  an  old  captain,  who  had 
retired  from  his  seafaring  life  with  just  money  enough 
to  live  on,  in  a  very  humble  way,  in  an  old  house  which 
had  belonged  to  his  grandfather.  He  had  lost  two 
wives  j  his  children  were  all  married  or  dead,  and  in 
his  loneliness  and  old  age  he  had  taken  for  his  third 
wife  the  gentle,  quiet  elder  sister  who  had  brought  up 
Jane  Miller.  She  was  a  gray-haired,  wrinkled  spinster 
woman  when  she  went  into  Captain  Melville's  house  j 
but  their  life  was  by  no  means  without  romance.  Hus- 
band and  home  cannot  come  to  any  womanly  heart 
too  late  for  sentiment  and  hapjDiness  to  put  forth  pale 
flowers. 

Emma  Melville  wrote  offering  the  Millers  a  home  ; 
their  last  misfortune  had  but  just  come  to  her  knowl- 
edge, for  Jane  had  been  for  months  too  much  out  of 
heart  to  write  to  her  relatives.     Emma  wrote  :  — 

"  We  are  very  poor,  too  ;  we  haven't  anything  but 
I'he  house,  and  a  little  money  each  year  to  buy  what 
we  need  to  eat  and  wear,  the  plainest  sort.  But  the 
house  is  large  ;    Captain   Melville  and  me  never  so 


la  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

much  as  set  foot  up-stairs.  If  you  can  manage  to  live 
on  the  upper  floor,  you're  more  than  welcome,  we  both 
say ;  and  we  hope  you  won't  let  any  pride  stand  in  the 
way  of  your  coming.  It  will  do  us  good  to  have  more 
folks  in  the  house,  and  it  ain't  as  if  it  cost  us  anything, 
for  we  shouldn't  never  be  willing,  neither  me  nor  Cap- 
tain Melville,  to  rent  the  rooms  to  strangers,  not  while 
we've  got  enough  to  live  on  without." 

There  was  silence  for  some  minutes  between  Reu- 
ben and  Jane  and  Draxy  after  this  letter  had  been 
read.  Jane  looked  steadily  away  from  Reuben.  There 
was  deep  down  in  the  patient  woman's  heart,  a  latent 
pride  which  was  grievously  touched.  Reuben  turned 
to  Draxy  ;  her  lips  were  parted  ;  her  cheeks  were 
flushed;  her  eyes  glowed.  "Oh,  father,  the  sea!" 
she  exclaimed.  This  was  her  first  thought ;  but  in  a 
second  more  she  added,  "  How  kind,  how  good  of 
Aunt  Emma's  husband  !  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  go,  my  daughter  ? "  said  Reu- 
ben, earnestly. 

"  Why,  I  thought  of  course  we  should  go  ! "  ex- 
claimed Drax}^,  turning  with  a  bewildered  look  to  her 
mother,  who  was  still  silent.  "  What  else  is  the  letter 
sent  for  ?     It  means  that  we  must  go." 

Her  beautiful  simplicity  was  utterly  removed  from 
any  false  sense  of  obligation.  She  accepted  help  as 
naturally  from  a  human  hand  as  from  the  sunshine ; 
she  would  give  it  herself,  so  far  as  she  had  power,  just 
as  naturally  and  just  as  unconsciously. 

There  was  very  little  discussion  about  the  plan. 
Draxy's  instinct  overbore  all  her  father's  misgiving, 
and  all  her  mother's  unwillingness. 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  I J 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  feel  so,  Ma,"  she  exclaimed  more 
than  once.  "  If  I  had  a  sister  I  could  not.  I  love 
Aunt  Emma  already  next  to  you  and  father ;  and  you 
don't  know  how  much  we  can  do  for  her  after  we  get 
there,  either.  I  can  earn  money  there,  1  know  I  can  ] 
all  we  need." 

.Mrs.  Melville  had  written  that  there  were  many 
strangers  in  the  town  in  the  summer,  and  that  she  pre- 
sumed Draxy  could  soon  find  all  the  work  she  wished 
as  seamstress ;  also  that  there  were  many  chances  of 
work  for  a  man  who  was  accustomed  to  gardening,  as, 
of  course^  Reuben  must  be. 

Draxy's  sanguine  cheerfulness  was  infectious  ;  even 
Jane  began  to  look  forward  with  interest  to  the  new 
home  ;  and  Reuben  smiled  when  Draxy  sang.  Law- 
ton  and  Reuben  were  to  be  left  behind  ;  that  was  the 
only  regret ;  but  it  was  merely  anticipating  by  a  very 
little  the  separation  which  was  inevitable,  as  the  boys 
had  both  become  engaged  to  daughters  of  the  farmers 
for  whom  they  had  been  working,  and  would  very  soon 
take  their  positions  as  sons-in-law  on  these  farms. 

The  store  was  sold,  the  furniture  packed,  and  Reu- 
ben Miller,  with  his  wife  and  child,  set  his  face  east- 
ward to  begin  life  anew.  The  change  from  the  rich 
wheat  fields  and  glorious  forests  of  Western  New  York, 
to  the  bare  stony  stretches  of  the  Atlantic  sea-board,  is 
a  severe  one.  No  adult  heart  can  make  it  without  a 
struggle.  When  Reuben  looked  out  of  the  car  win- 
dows upon  the  low  gray  barrens  through  which  he  was 
nearing  his  journey's  end,  his  soul  sank  within  him. 
It  was  sunset ;  the  sea  glistened  like  glass,  and  was  as 
red  as  the  sky.     Draxy  could  not  speak  for  delight ; 


1 8  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  and  she  took  hold  of  her 
father's  hand.  But  Reuben  and  Jane  saw  only  the 
desolate  rocks,  and  treeless,  shrubless,  almost  —  it 
seemed  to  them  — grassless  fields,  and  an  unutterable 
sense  of  gloom  came  over  them.  It  was  a  hot  and 
stifling  day ;  a  long  drought  had  parched  and  shriv- 
eled every  living  thing ;  and  the  white  August  dust  lay 
everywhere. 

Captain  Melville  lived  in  the  older  part  of  the  town 
near  the  water.  The  houses  were  all  wooden,  weather- 
beaten,  and  gray,  and  had  great  patches  of  yellow 
lichen  on  their  walls  and  roofs  ;  thin  rims  of  starved- 
looking  grass  edged  the  streets,  and  stray  blades  stood 
up  here  and  there  among  the  old  sunken  cobble-stones 
which  made  the  pavements. 

The  streets  seemed  deserted  ;  the  silence  and  the 
sombre  color,  and  the  strange  low  plashing  of  the  wa- 
ter against  the  wharves,  oppressed  even  Draxy's  enthu- 
siastic heart.  Her  face  fell,  and  she  exclaimed  invol- 
untarily, "  Oh,  what  a  lonesome  place  !  "  Checking 
herself,  she  added,  "  but  it's  only  the  twilight  makes  it 
look  so,  I  expect." 

They  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  the  house.  The 
lanes  and  streets  seemed  inextricably  tangled ;  the 
little  party  was  shy  of  asking  direction,  and  they  were 
all  disappointed  and  grieved,  more  than  they  owned  to 
themselves,  that  they  had  not  been  met  at  the  station. 
At  last  they  found  the  house.  Timidly  Draxy  lifted 
the  great  brass  knocker.  It  looked  to  her  like  splen- 
dor, and  made  her  afraid.  It  fell  more  heavily  than 
jhe  supposed  it  would,  and  the  clang  sounded  to  her 
over-wrought  nerves  as  if  it  filled  the  whole  street.    No 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  1 9 

one  came.  They  looked  at  the  windows.  The  cur- 
tains were  all  down.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  aboui 
the  place.  Tears  came  into  Jane's  eyes.  She  was 
worn  out  with  the  fatigue  of  the  journey. 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  we  hadn't 
come." 

"  Pshaw,  mother,"  said  Reuben,  with  a  voice  cheerier 
than  his  heart,  "very  likely  they  never  got  our  last  let- 
ter, and  don't  know  we  were  to  be  here  to-day,"  and 
he  knocked  again. 

Instantly  a  window  opened  in  the  opposite  house, 
and  a  jolly  voice  said,  "  My  gracious,"  and  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  the  jolly  owner  of  the  jolly  voice 
had  opened  her  front  door  and  run  bareheaded  across 
the  street,  and  was  shaking  hands  with  Reuben  and 
Jane  and  Drax}^,  all  three  at  once,  and  talking  so  fast 
that  they  could  hardly  understand  her. 

"  My  gracious  !  my  gracious  !  Won't  Mrs.  Melville 
be  beat !  Of  course  you're  her  folks  she  was  expect- 
ing from  the  West,  ain't  you  ?  I  mistrusted  it  some- 
how as  soon  as  I  heard  the  big  knock.  Now  I'll  jest 
let  you  in  the  back  door.  Oh  my,  Mis'  Melville '11 
never  get  over  this ;  to  think  of  her  be'n'  away,  an' 
she's  been  lookin'  and  lookin',  and  worryin'  for  two 
v/eeks,  because  she  didn't  hear  from  you ;  and  only 
last  night  Captain  Melville  he  said  *  he'd  write  to-day 
if  they  didn't  hear.'  " 

"We  wrote,"  said  Draxy,  in  her  sweet,  low  voice, 
"  we  wrote  to  Aunt  Emma  that  we'd  come  to-day." 

"  Now  did  you  1  "  said  the  jolly  voice.  "  Well, 
that's  jest  the  way.  You  see  your  letter's  gone  some- 
jvhere  else,  and  now  Mis'  Melville  she's  gone  to  "-- 


20  SAKE  nOLArS  STORIES. 

the  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost,  for  the  breathless 
little  woman  was  running  round  the  house  to  the  back 
door. 

In  a  second  more  the  upper  half  of  the  big  old- 
fashioned  door  had  swung  open,  to  Draxy's  great 
delight,  who  exclaimed,  "Oh,  father,  we  read  about 
such  doors  as  this  in  that  Knickerbocker  book,  don't 
yDu  remember  ? " 

But  good  Mrs.  Carr  was  drawing  them  into  the 
house  giving  them  neighborly  welcome,  all  the  while 
running  on  in  such  voluble  ejaculatory  talk  that  the 
quiet,  saddened,  recluse-like  people  were  overwhelmed 
with  embarrassment,  and  hardly  knew  which  way  to 
turn.  Presently  she  saw  their  confusion  and  inter- 
rupted herself  with  — 

"Well,  wellj  you're  jest  all  tired  out  with  your 
journey,  an'  a  cup  o'  tea's  the  thing  you  want,  an' 
none  o'  my  talk  ;  but  you  see  Mis'  Melville  'n  me's 
so  intimate  that  I  feel's  if  I'd  known  you  always,  'n 
I'm  real  glad  to  see  you  here,  real  glad  ;  'n  I'll  bring 
the  tea  right  over  ;  the  kettle  was  a  boilin'  when  I 
run  out,  'n  I'll  send  Jim  right  down  town  for  Captain 
Melville  ;  he's  sure  to  be  to  the  library.  Oh,  but 
won't  Mis'  Melville  be  beat,"  she  continued,  half 
way  dov/n  the  steps ;  and  from  the  middle  of  the 
street  she  called  back,  "  'an  she  ain't  coming  home 
till  to-morrow  night." 

Reuben  and  Jane  and  Draxy  sat  down  with  as  bewil- 
dered a  feeling  as  if  they  had  been  transported  to 
another  world.  The  house  was  utterly  unlike  an}'-- 
thing  they  had  ever  seen ;  high  ceilings,  wainscoted 
uralls,  wooden  cornices  and  beams,  and  wooden  man- 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  21 

tels  with  heads  carved  on  the  corners.  It  seemed  to 
them  at  first  appallingly  grand.  Presently  they  ob- 
served the  bare  wooden  floors,  the  flag-bottomed  chairs, 
and  faded  chintz  cushions,  the  row  of  old  tin  utensils, 
and  plain,  cheap  crockery  in  the  glass-doored  cupboard, 
and  felt  more  at  home. 

"  You  know  Aunt  Emma  said  they  were  poor,  toe,'' 
said  Draxy,  answering  her  own  unspoken  thought  as 
well  as  her  father's  and  mother's. 

Reuben  pushed  his  hair  off  his  warm  forehead  and 
sighed. 

"  I  suppose  we  might  go  up-stairs,  mother,"  he  said  j 
"  that's  to  be  our  house,  as  I  understand  it." 

Draxy  bounded  at  the  words.  With  flying  steps 
she  ascended  the  stairs  and  opened  the  first  door. 
She  stood  still  on  the  threshold,  unable  to  move  from 
astonishment.  It  was  still  light  enough  to  see  the 
room.  Draxy  began  to  speak,  but  broke  down  utterly, 
and  bursting  out  crying,  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of 
her  father  who  had  just  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"  Oh,  father,  it's  all  fixed  for  a  sitting-room  !  Father 
dear,  I  told  you  !  " 

This  was  something  they  had  not  dreamed  of. 
They  had  understood  the  offer  to  be  merely  of  rooms 
in  which  they  could  live  rent-free.  •  In  fact,  that  had 
been  Captain  Melville's  first  intention.  But  his  gen- 
erous sailor's  heart  revolted  from  the  thought  of  strip- 
ping the  rooms  of  furniture  for  which  he  had  no  use. 
So  Emma  had  rearranged  the  plain  old-fashioned 
things,  and  adding  a  few  more  which  could  be  spared 
as  well  as  not,  had  fitted  up  a  sitting-room  and  two  bed- 
rooms with  all  that  was  needed  for  comfort.     Reuben 


22  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

and  Jane  and  Draxy  were  all  crying  when  Mrs.  Carr 
came  back  with  her  pitcher  of  smoking  tea.  Reuben 
tried  to  ex[)lain  to  her  why  they  were  crying,  but  she 
interrupted  him  with,  — 

"  Well,  now,  I  understand  it  jest's  if  'twas  to  me 
it'd  all  happened ;  an'  I  think  it's  lucky  after  all  thai 
Mis'  Melville  wasn't  here,  for  she's  dreadful  easy  up- 
set if  people  take  on.  But  now  you  drink  your  tea, 
and  get  all  settled  down's  quick's  you  can,  for  Cap- 
tain Melville  '11  be  here  any  minute  now  I  expect,  an' 
he  don't  like  tantrums." 

This  frightened  Draxy,  and  made  a  gloomy  look 
come  on  Reuben's  face.  But  the  fright  and  the  gloom 
disappeared  in  one  minute  and  forever  when  the  door 
burst  open,  and  a  red-faced,  white-haired  old  man, 
utterly  out  of  breath,  bounced  into  the  room,  and 
seizing  Reuben  by  the  hand  gasped  out,  puffing  be- 
tween the  words  like  a  steam-engine  ;  — 

"  Wreck  me,  if  this  isn't  a  hard  way  to  make  port. 
Why,  man,  we've  been  looking  for  some  hail  from  you 
for  two  weeks,  till  we  began  to  think  you'd  given  us 
the  go-by  altogether.  Welcome  to  Melville  Harbor, 
I  say,  welcome  ! "  and  he  had  shaken  Reuben's  hand, 
and  kissed  Jane  and  turned  to  Draxy  all  in  a  breath. 
At  the  first  full  sight  of  Draxy's  face  he  started  and 
felt  dumb.  He  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a  woman. 
He  pulled  out  a  red  silk  handkerchief  and  wiped  his 
face  nervously  as  she  said,  "  Kiss  me  too,  uncle," 
but  her  warm  lips  were  on  his  cheek  before  he  had 
time  to  analyze  his  own  feelings.  Then  Reuben  be- 
gan to  say  something  about  gratitude,  and  the  old 
Eailor  swore  his  favorite  oath  again  :  "  Now,  may  I  be 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  23 

wrecked  if  I  have  a  word  o'  that.  We're  glad  enough 
to  get  you  all  here ;  and  as  for  the  few  things  in  the 
rooms,  they're  of  no  account  anyhow." 

"  Few  things !  Oh,  uncle,"  said  Draxy,  with  a 
trembling  voice,  and  before  he  knew  what  she  was 
about  to  do  she  had  snatched  his  fat,  weather-beaten 
old  hand  and  kissed  it.  No  woman  had  ever  kissed 
John  Melville's  hand  before.  From  that  moment  he 
looked  upon  Draxy  as  a  princess  who  had  let  him 
once  kiss  hers  ! 

Captain  Melville  and  Reuben  were  friends  before 
bed-time.  Reuben's  gentle  simplicity  and  unworldli- 
ness,  and  patient  demeanor,  roused  in  the  rough 
sailor  a  sympathy  like  that  he  had  always  felt  for 
women.  And  to  Reuben  the  hearty  good  cheer,  and 
brisk,  bluff  sailor  wavs  were  infinitely  winning  and 
stimulating. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Melville  came  home.  In  a 
short  time  the  little  household  had  adjusted  itself, 
and  settled  down  into  its  routine  of  living.  When,  in 
a  few  days,  the  great  car-load  of  the  Millers'  furni- 
ture arrived,  Capt.  Melville  insisted  upon  its  all  going 
to  the  auction-rooms  excepting  the  kitchen  furniture, 
and  a  few  things  for  which  Jane  had  especial  attach- 
ment. It  brought  two  hundred  dollars,  which,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  price  of  the  farm,  and  the  store  and  its 
stock,  gave  Reuben  just  nineteen  hundred  dollars  to 
put  in  the  Savings  Bank. 

"  And  I  am  to  be  counted  at  least  two  thousand 
more,  father  dear,  so  you  are  not  such  a  very  poor 
nan  after  all,"  said  Draxy,  laughing  and  dancing 
tround  him. 


24  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Now  Draxy  Miller's  real  life  began.  In  after  years 
she  used  to  say,  "  I  was  born  first  in  my  native  town ; 
second,  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean !  "  The  effect  of  the 
strong  sea  air  upon  her  was  something  indescribable  ; 
joy  seemed  to  radiate  from  her  whole  being.  She 
smiled  whenever  she  saw  the  sea.  She  walked  on  the 
beach ;  she  sat  on  the  rocks  ;  she  learned  to  swim 
in  one  lesson,  and  swam  so  far  out  that  her  uncle 
dared  not  follow,  and  called  to  her  in  imploring  ter- 
ror to  return.  Her  beauty  grew  more  and  more  radi- 
ant every  day.  This  the  sea  gave  to  her  body.  But 
there  was  a  far  subtler  new  life  than  the  physical, 
a  far  finer  new  birth  than  the  birth  of  beauty,  —  which 
came  to  Draxy  here.  This,  books  gave  to  her  soul. 
Only  a  few  years  before,  a  free  librar}'  had  been 
founded  in  this  town,  by  a  rich  and  benevolent  man. 
Every  week  hundreds  of  volumes  circulated  among 
the  families  where  books  were  prized,  and  could  not 
be  owned.  When  Draxy's  uncle  first  took  her  into 
this  library,  and  explained  to  her  its  purpose  and 
regulations,  she  stood  motionless  for  a  few  moments, 
.ooking  at  him  —  and  at  the  books  :  then,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  and  saying,  "  Don't  follow  me,  uncle  dear  ; 
don't  mind  me,  I  can't  bear  it,"  she  ran  swiftly  into 
the  street,  and  never  stopped  until  she  had  reached 
home  and  found  her  father.  An  hour  later  she  en- 
tered the  library  again,  leading  her  father  by  the  hand. 
She  had  told  him  the  story  on  the  wa}^  Reuben's 
thin  cheeks  were  flushed.  It  was  almost  more  than 
he  too  could  bear.  Silently  the  father  and  daughter 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  looking  into  the  al- 
coves.    Then   they  sat  down    together,  and  studied 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY,  2$ 

the  catalogue.  Then  they  rose  and  went  out,  hand 
in  hand  as  they  had  entered,  speaking  no  word,  tak- 
ing no  book.  For  one  day  the  consciousness  of  this 
wealth  filled  their  hearts  beyond  the  possibility  of  one 
added  desire.  After  that,-Draxy  and  her  father  were 
to  be  seen  every  night  seated  at  the  long  table  in  the 
reading-room.  They  read  always  together,  Draxy's 
arm  being  over  the  back  of  her  father's  chair.  .Many 
a  man  and  many  a  woman  stopped  and  looked  long 
at  the  picture.  But  neither  Draxy  nor  her  father 
knew  it. 

At  the  end  of  two  years,  Draxy  Miller  had  culture. 
She  was  ignorant  still,  of  course ;  she  was  an  uned- 
ucated girl ;  she  wept  sometimes  over  her  own  deficien- 
cies j  but  her  mind  was  stored  with  information  of  all 
sorts  ;  she  had  added  Wordsworth  to  her  Shakespeare  • 
she  had  journeyed  over  the  world  with  every  traveller 
whose  works  she  could  find  ;  and  she  had  tasted  of 
Plato  and  Epictetus.  Reuben's  unfailing  simplicity 
and  purity  of  taste  saved  her  from  the  mischiefs  of 
many  of  the  modern  books.  She  had  hardly  read  a 
single  novel ;  but  her  love  of  true  poetry  was  a  pas- 
sion. 

In  the  mean  time  she  had  become  the  favorite 
seamstress  of  the  town.  Her  face,  and  voice,  and 
smile  would  alone  have  won  way  for  her ;  but  in  ad- 
dition to  those,  she  was  a  most  dexterous  workwoman. 
If  there  had  only  been  twice  as  many  days  in  a  year, 
she  would  have  been  glad.  Her  own  earnings  in 
addition  to  her  father's,  and  to  their  little  income  from 
the  money  in  the  bank,  made  them  comfortable  ;  but 
with  Draxy's  expanded  intellectual  life  had  come  new 
desires :  she  longed  to  be  taught. 


26  SAXE  HOLM'S  ST0RIE!9. 

One  day  she  said  to  her  father,  "  Father  dear,  what 
was  the  name  of  that  canal  contractor  who  borrowed 
money  of  you  and  never  paid  it  ?  " 

Reuben  looked  astonished,  but  told  her. 

"  Is  he  alive  yet  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Reuben,  "  and  he's  rich  now.  There 
was  a  man  here  only  last  week  who  said  he'd  built  him 
a  grand  house  this  year." 

Draxy  shut  her  hands  nervously.  "  Father,  I  shall 
go  and  get  that  money." 

"  You,  child  !  Why  it's  two  days'  journey  ;  and  he'd 
never  pay  you  a  cent.  I  tried  times  enough,"  replied 
Reuben. 

"But  I  think  perhaps  he  would  be  more  likelyto 
pay  it  to  a  woman  ;  he  would  be  ashamed,"  said  Draxy, 
"especially  if  he  is  rich  now,  and  I  tell  him  how  much 
we  need  it." 

"  No,  no,  child  ;  I  shouldn't  hear  to  your  going  ;  no 
more  would  mother  ;  and  it  would  be  money  wasted 
besides,"  said  Reuben,  with  sternness  unusual  for  him. 

Draxy  was  silent.  The  next  morning  she  went  to  the 
railway  station  and  ascertained  exactly  how  much  the 
journey  would  cost.  She  was  disheartened  at  the 
amount.  It  would  be  difficult  for  her  to  save  so  much 
out  of  a  whole  year's  earnings.  That  day  Draxy's  face 
U'as  sad.  She  was  sewing  at  the  house  of  one  of  her 
warmest  friends.  All  her  employers  were  her  friends, 
but  this  one  was  a  woman  of  rare  intelligence  and  cul- 
ture, who  had  loved  Draxy  ever  since  the  day  she  had 
found  her  reading  a  little  volume  of  Wordsworth,  one 
of  the  Free  Library  books,  while  she  was  eating  her 
dinner  in  the  sewing-room. 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  27 

"Why,  child,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  are  you  do- 
ing!" 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  I  don't  take  any  longer  for  my  dinner," 
said  poor  Draxy,  "  but  I  do  love  the  poetry  so,  and  I 
have  so  little  time  to  read." 

That  night  when  Draxy  went  home  she  found  a 
beautiful  copy  of  Wordsworth's  poems  waiting  for  her. 
Written  on  the  fly-leaf  were  the  words,  "  For  Draxy 
Miller,  with  the  cordial  regards  of  Mrs.  White."  From 
that  day  Draxy  received  double  pay  for  all  sewing 
she  did  in  Mrs.  White's  house,  and  was  comfortably 
clothed  from  her  wardrobe. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Draxy  ? "  said  Mrs.  White  on 
this  mornings  "you  look  ill." 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Draxy. 

"  But  I  am  sure  you  are.  You  don't  look  like  your- 
self." 

"No,  ma*am,"  said  Draxy. 

Mrs.  White  was  an  impulsive  woman.  She  seized 
the  work  from  Draxy's  hands,  and  sat  down  before  her. 

"Now  tell  me,"  she  said. 

Then  Draxy  told  her  story. 

"  How  much  did  this  man  owe  your  father  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  W. 

"  Twenty-five  hundred  dollars,"  said  Draxy. 

"That  is  worth  trying  for,  dear.  I  think  you  are 
right  to  go.  He  will  pay  it  to  you  on  sight  if  he  is  a 
mortal  man  !  "  added  Mrs.  White,  mentally.  But  she 
tvent  on  —  "  Thirty  dollars  is  very  easily  raised." 

"  Oh,  twenty  will  do,"  interrupted  Draxy. 

"No;  you  ought  not  to  go  with  less  than  thirty," 
Raid  Mrs.  W. ;  "  and  you  shall  have  it.  All  your  friends 
vvill  be  glad  to  help." 


28  SAXB  HOLAT'^'  SIXKIES. 

« 

Draxy  looked  her  gratitude,  but  said  nothing.  Not 
the  least  of  her  charms,  to  the  well-bred  people  who 
employed  her,  was  her  exquisite  reticence,  her  gentle 
and  unconscious  withdrawal  into  herself,  in  spite  of  all 
familiarity  with  which  she  might  be  treated. 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  White  sent  a  note  to  Draxy 
with  the  thirty  dollars  inclosed,  and  this  note  to  Mr. 
Miller :  — 

*•  Mr.  Miller  —  Dear  Sir  :  — 

"This  money  has  been  contributed  by  Draxy's 
friends.  You  do  not  know  how  much  we  all  prize  and 
esteem  your  daughter  and  wish  to  help  her.  I  hope 
you  will  be  willing  that  she  should  use  this  money  for 
the  journey  on  which  her  heart  is  so  set.  I  really  ad- 
vise you  as  a  friend  to  let  her  make  the  effort  to  re- 
cover that  money  j  I  think  she  will  get  it. 

"  Truly,  your  friend, 

"  A.  White." 

This  note  brought  tears  of  pride  to  Reuben's  eyes. 
Draxy  watched  him  closely,  and  said  :  — 

"  Father  dear,  I  should  like  to  go  to-morrow." 

Her  preparations  had  already  been  made.  She  knew 
beforehand  that  her  cause  was  won  ;  that  her  father's 
sense  of  justice  would  not  let  him  interfere  with  her 
use  of  the  gift  for  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  made. 

It  was  on  a  clear  cold  morning  in  January  that  Draxy 
set  out.  It  was  the  second  journey  of  her  life,  and 
she  was  alone  for  the  first  time  ;  but  she  felt  no  more 
fear  than  if  she  had  been  a  sparrow  winging  its  way 
through  a  new  field.     The  morning  twilight  was  just 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  29 

Fading  away  ;  both  the  east  and  the  west  were  clear  and 
glorious  ;  the  east  was  red,  and  the  west  pale  blue ; 
high  in  the  west  stood  the  full  moon,  golden  yellow ; 
below  it  a  long  narrow  bar  of  faint  rose-color  ;  below 
that,  another  bar  of  fainter  purple  ;  then  the  low  brown 
line  of  a  long  island  ;  then  an  arm  of  the  sea ;  the 
water  was  gray  and  still ;  the  ice  rims  stretched  far  out 
from  the  coast,  and  swayed  up  and  down  at  the  edges, 
as  the  waves  pulsed  in  and  out.  Flocks  of  gulls  were 
wheeling,  soaring  in  the  air,  or  lighting  and  floating 
among  the  ice  fragments,  as  cold  and  snowy  as  they. 
Draxy  leaned  her  head  against  the  side  of  the  car  and 
looked  out  on  the  marvelous  beauty  of  the  scene  with 
eyes  as  filled  with  calm  delight  as  if  she  had  all  her 
life  journeyed  for  pleasure,  and  had  had  nothing  to  do 
but  feed  and  develop  her  artistic  sense. 

A  company  of  travelling  actors  sat  near  her ;  a  dozen 
tawdry  women  and  coarse  men,  whose  loud  voices  and 
vulgar  jests  made  Draxy  shudder.  She  did  not  know 
what  they  could  be ;  she  had  never  seen  such  be- 
havior ;  the  men  took  out  cards  and  began  to  play ; 
the  women  leaned  over,  looked  on,  and  clapped  the 
men  on  their  shoulders.  Draxy  grew  afraid,  and  the 
expression  of  distress  on  her  face  attracted  the  con- 
ductor's notice.     He  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 

*'  ni  take  you  into  the  next  car,  Miss,  if  you  don't 
like  to  be  near  these  people.  They're  only  actors ; 
there's  no  harm  in  them,  but  they're  a  rough  set." 

"  Actors,"  said  Draxy,  as  the  kind  conductor  lifted 
her  from  one  platform  to  another.  "  I  never  thought 
they  were  like  that.     Do  they  play  Shakespeare?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  conductor,  puz- 
zled enough ;  "but  I  dare  say  they  do." 


30  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  Then  I'm  glad  I  never  went  to  the  theatre,"  thought 
Draxy,  as  she  settled  herself  in  her  new  seat.  For  a 
few  moments  she  could  not  banish  her  disturbed  and 
unhappy  feeling.  She  could  not  stop  fancying  some 
of  the  grand  words  which  she  most  loved  in  Shakes- 
peare, repeated  by  those  repulsive  voices. 

But  soon  she  turned  her  eyes  to  the  kindling  sky, 
and  forgot  all  else.  The  moon  was  slowly  turning  from 
gold  to  silver ;  then  it  would  turn  from  silver  to  white 
cloud,  then  to  film,  then  vanish  away.  Draxy  knew 
that  day  and  the  sun  would  conquer.  "  Oh,  if  I  only 
understood  it,"  sighed  Draxy.  Then  she  fell  to  think- 
ing about  the  first  chapter  in  Genesis  ;  and  while  she 
looked  upon  that  paling  moon,  she  dreamed  of  other 
moons  which  no  human  eyes  ever  saw.  Draxy  was  a 
poet ;  but  as  yet  she  had  never  dared  to  show  even  to 
her  father  the  little  verses  she  had  not  been  able  to 
help  Avriting.  "  Oh,  how  dare  I  do  this  ;  how  dare  I  ?  " 
she  said  to  herself,  as  alone  in  her  little  room,  she  wrote 
line  after  line.  "  But  if  nobody  ever  knows,  it  can  do 
no  harm.  It  is  strange  I  love  it,  though,  when  I  am 
so  ashamed." 

This  morning  Draxy  had  that  mysterious  feeling  as 
if  all  things  were  new,  which  so  often  comes  to  poetic 
souls.  It  is  at  once  the  beauty  and  the  burden,  the 
exhaustion  and  the  redemption  of  their  lives.  No 
wonder  that  even  common  men  can  sometimes  see  the 
transfiguration  which  often  comes  to  him  before  whose 
eyes  death  and  resurrection  are  always  following  each 
other,  instant,  perpetual,  glorious.  Draxy  took  out  her 
Httle  diar3^  Folded  very  small,  and  hid  in  the  pocket 
pf  it,  was  a  short  poem  that  she  had  written  the  year 


DI^AXy  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  3 1 

before  on  a  Tiarella  plant  which  had  blossomed  in  her 
window.  Mrs.  White  had  brought  it  to  her  with  some 
ferns  and  mosses  from  the  mountains,  and  all  wmter 
Ion-  it  had  flowered  as  if  in  summer.  Draxy  won- 
dered why  this  golden  moon  reminded  her  of  the  Ti- 
arella. She'did  not  know  the  subtle  underlymg  bonds 
in  nature.     These  were  the  Tiarella  verses  :  — 

My  little  Tiarella, 

If  thou  art  my  own, 
Tell  me  how  thus  in  winter 

Thy  shining  flowers  have  blown. 
Art  thou  a  fairy  smuggler, 

Defying  law  ? 
Didst  take  of  last  year's  summer 

More  than  summer  saw  ? 
Or  hast  thou  stolen  frost-flakes 

Secretly  at  night  ? 
Thy  stamens  tipped  with  silver, 

Thy  petals  spotless  white. 
Are  so  like  those  which  cover 

My  window-pane  ; 
Wilt  thou,  like  them,  turn  back  at  noon 
To  drops  again  ? 

Oh,  little  Tiarella, 

Thy  silence  speaks  ; 
No  more  my  foolish  question 

Thy  secret  seeks. 
The  sunshine  on  my  window 

Lies  all  the  day. 
How  shouldst  thou  know  that  summer 

Has  passed  away  ? 
The  frost-flake's  icy  silver 
Is  dew  at  noon  for  thee. 
O  winter  sun  !  O  winter  frost, 
Make  summer  dews  for  me  1 


32  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

After  reading  these  over  several  times,  Drax/  took 
out  her  pencil,  and  very  shyly  screening  herself  from 
all  observation,  wrote  on  the  other  side  of  the  paper 
these  lines : 

THE   MORNING   MOON. 

The  gold  moon  turns  to  white  ; 
The  white  moon  fades  to  cloud ; 
It  looks  so  like  the  gold  moon's  shroud. 
It  makes  me  think  about  the  dead, 
And  hear  the  words  I  have  heard  read, 

By  graves  for  burial  rite. 

I  wonder  now  how  many  moons 
In  just  such  white  have  died  ; 
I  wonder  how  the  stars  divide 
Among  themselves  their  share  of  light ; 
And  if  there  were  great  years  of  night 

Before  the  earth  saw  noons. 

I  wonder  why  each  moon,  each  sun, 
Which  ever  has  been  or  shall  be, 
In  this  day's  sun  and  moon  I  see ; 
I  think  perhaps  all  of  the  old 
Is  hidden  in  each  new  day's  hold  ; 

So  the  first  day  is  not  yet  done  ! 

And  then  I  think  —  our  dust  is  spent 
Before  the  balances  are  swung  ; 
Shall  we  be  loneliest  among 
God's  living  creatures  ?     Shall  we  dare 
To  speak  in  this  eternal  air 

The  only  discontent  ? 

Then  she  shut  the  book  resolutely,  and  sat  up 
straight  with  a  little  laugh,  sa3'ing  to  herself,  "  This  is 
a  pretty  beginning  for  a  business  journey !  " 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  33 

Far  better  than  you  knew,  sweet  Draxy  !  The  great 
successes  of  Hfe  are  never  made  by  the  men  and 
women  who  have  no  poetic  comprehension  in  their 
souls. 

Draxy's  first  night  was  spent  at  the  house  of  a 
brother  of  Captain  Melville's,  to  whom  her  uncle  had 
given  her  a  letter.  All  went  smoothly,  and. her  courage 
rose.  The  next  day  at  noon  she  was  to  change  cars 
in  one  of  the  great  railroad  centres  ;  as  she  drew  near 
the  city  she  began  to  feel  uneasy.  But  her  directions 
were  explicit,  and  she  stepped  bravely  out  into  the 
dismal,  dark,  underground  station,  bought  her  ticket, 
and  walked  up  and  down  on  the  platform  with  her 
little  valise  in  her  hand,  waiting  for  the  train. 

In  a  few  moments  it  thundered  in,  enveloped  in  a 
blinding,  stifling  smoke.  The  crowd  of  passengers 
poured  out.  "  Twenty  minutes  for  refreshments,"  was 
shouted  at  each  car,  and  in  a  moment  more  there  was 
a  clearing  up  of  the  smoke,  and  a  lull  in  the  tramp- 
ling of  the  crowd.  Draxy  touched  the  conductor  on 
the  arm. 

"  Is  this  the  train  I  am  to  take,  sir  ?  "  she  said  show- 
ing him  her  ticket. 

He  glanced  carelessly  at  it.  ^'  No,  no,"  said  he  ; 
"  this  is  the  express  ;  don't  stop  there.  You  must  wait 
till  the  afternoon  accommodation." 

"  But  what  time  will  that  train  get  there  ? "  said 
Draxy,  turning  pale. 

"  About  ten  o'clock,  if  it's  on  time,"  said  the  con- 
ductor, walking  away.  He  had  not  yet  glanced  at 
Draxy,  but  at  her  ^'  Oh,  what  shall  I  do ! "  he  turned 
back  ;  Draxy's  face  held  him  spellbound,  as  it  had  held 
3 


34  SAKE  no^nrs  stories. 

many  a  man  before.  He  stepped  near  her,  and  taking 
the  ticket  from  her  hand,  turned  it  over  and  over  ir- 
resolutely. "  I  wish  I  could  stop  there,  Miss,"  he 
said.  "  Is  it  any  one  who  is  sick  ?  "  —  for  Draxy's 
evident  distress  suggested  but  one  explanation. 

"  Oh  no,"  replied  Draxy,  trying  in  vain  to  make  her 
voice  steady.  "  But  I  am  all  alone,  and  I  know  no 
one  there,  and  I  am  afraid  —  it  is  so  late  at  night. 
My  friends  thought  I  should  get  there  before  dark." 

"  What  are  you  going  for,  if  you  don't  know  any- 
body ?  "  said  the  conductor,  in  a  tone  less  sympathiz- 
ing and  respectful.  He  was  a  man  more  used  to 
thinking  ill  than  well  of  people. 

Draxy  colored.     But  her  voice  became  very  steady. 

"  I  am  Reuben  Miller's  daughter,  sir,  and  I  am 
going  there  to  get  some  money  which  a  bad  man  owed 
my  father.  We  need  the  money,  and  there  was  no  one 
else  to  go  for  it." 

The  conductor  had  never  heard  of  Una,  but  the 
tone  of  the  sentence,  "  I  am  Reuben  Miller's  daugh- 
ter," smote  ujDon  his  heart,  and  made  him  as  reverent 
to  the  young  girl  as  if  she  had  been  a  saint. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss,"  he  said  involuntarily. 

Draxy  looked  at  him  with  a  bewildered  expression, 
but  made  no  reply.  She  was  too  childlike  to  know 
that  for  the  rough  manner  which  had  hurt  her  he  ought 
to  ask  such  pardon. 

The     conductor    proceeded,    still    fingering    the 
ticket :  — 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  stop  there.  It's  a  great 
risk  for  me  to  take.  If  there  was  only  one  of  the 
Directors  on  board   now."     Draxy  looked  still  more 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  35 

puzzled.     "  No,"  he  said,  giving  her  back  the  ticket : 
"  I  can't  do  it  no  how  \  "  and  he  walked  away. 

Draxy  stood  still  in  despair.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
came  back.  He  could  not  account  for  its  seeming  to 
him  such  an  utter  impossibility  to  leave  that  girl  to  go 
on  her  journey  at  night. 

"  What  shall  you  do  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  think  my  father  would  prefer  that  I  should  find 
some  proper  place  to  spend  the  night  here,  and  go  on 
in  the  morning,"  replied  Draxy ;  "  do  you  not  think 
that  would  be  better,  sir?"  she  added,  with  an  ap- 
pealing, confiding  tone  which  made  the  conductor  feel 
more  like  her  knight  than  ever. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,  and  I  will  give  you  my  card  to 
take  to  the  hotel  where  I  stay,"  said  he,  and  he 
plunged  into  the  crowd  again. 

Draxy  turned  to  a  brakeman  who  had  drawn  near. 

"  Has  the  conductor  the  right  to  stop  the  train  if  he 
chooses  ?"  said  she. 

"  Why  yes.  Miss,  he's  right  enough,  if  that's  all. 
Of  course  he's  got  to  have  power  to  stop  the  train  any 
minute.  But  stoppin'  jest  to  let  off  a  passenger,  that's 
different." 

Draxy  closed  her  lips  a  little  more  firmly,  and  be- 
came less  pale.  When  the  conductor  came  back  and 
gave  her  his  card,  with  the  name  of  the  hotel  on  it, 
she  thanked  him^  took  the  card,  but  did  not  stir.  He 
looked  at  her  earnestly,  said  "  Good  da}'.  Miss,"  lifted 
his  hat,  and  disappeared.  Draxy  smiled.  It  yet 
wanted  ten  minutes  of  the  time  for  the  train  to  go. 
She  stood  still,  patiently  biding  her  last  chance.  The 
first   bell   rang  —  the  steam    was  up  —  the  crowd  of 


36  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

passengers  poured  in ;  at  the  last  niinute  but  one 
came  the  conductor.  As  he  caught  sight  of  Draxy's 
erect,  dignified  figure,  he  started ;  before  he  could 
speak,  Draxy  said,  "  I  waited,  sir,  for  I  thought  at  the 
last  minute  a  director  might  come,  or  you  might 
change  your  mind." 

The  conductor  laughed  out,  and  seizing  Draxy's 
valise,  exclaimed,  "  By  George,  I  will  stop  the  train 
for  you.  Miss  Miller  !  Hang  me  if  I  don't ;  jump  in  ! ' 
and  in  one  minute  more  Draxy  was  whirling  out  of  the 
dark  station  into  the  broad  sunlight,  which  dazzled 
her. 

When  the  conductor  first  came  through  the  car 
he  saw  that  Draxy  had  been  crying.  "  Do  her  good," 
he  thought  to  himself;  "  it  always  does  do  women 
good ;  but  I'll  be  bound  she  wouldn't  ha'  cried  if  I'd 
left  her." 

Half  an  hour  later  he  found  her  sound  asleep,  with 
her  head  slipping  uneasily  about  on  the  back  of  the 
seat.  Half  ashamed  of  himself,  he  brought  a  heavy 
coat  and  put  it  under  her  head  for  a  pillow.  Seeing 
a  supercilious  and  disagreeable  smile  on  the  face  of  a 
fashionable  young  man  in  the  seat  before  Draxy,  he 
said  sharply :  "  She's  come  a  long  journey,  and  was 
put  under  my  care." 

"I  guess  that's  true  enough  to  pass  muster,"  he 
chuckled  to  himself  as  he  walked  away.  "  If  ever 
I'd  ha'  believed  a  woman  could  make  me  stop  this 
train  for  her  !  An',  by  George,  without  askin'  me  to 
either !  " 

Draxy  slept  on  for  hours.  The  winter  twilight 
came    earlier  than    usual,  for  the   sky  was   overcast 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  37 

When  she  waked,  the  lamps  were  lighted,  and  the  con- 
ductor was  bending  over  her,  saying :  "  We're  most 
there.  Miss,  and  I  thought  3^ou'd  better  get  steadied 
on  your  feet  a  little  before  you  get  off,  for  I  don't  cal- 
culate to  make  a  full  stop." 

Draxy  laughed  like  a  little  child,  and  put  up  both 
hands  to  her  head  as  if  to  make  sure  where  she  was. 
Then  she  followed  the  conductor  to  the  door  and  stood 
looking  out  into  the  dim  light. 

The  sharp  signal  for  "  down  brakes,"  made  exper- 
ienced passengers  spring  to  their  feet.  Windows 
opened  ;  heads  were  thrust  out.  What  had  happened 
to  this  express  train  t  The  unaccustomed  sound 
startled  the  village  also.  It  was  an  aristocratic  little 
place,  settled  by  wealthy  men  whose  business  was  in  a 
neighboring  city.  At  many  a  dinner-table  surprised 
voices  said :  "  Why,  what  on  earth  is  the  down 
express  stopping  here  for?  Something  must  have 
broken." 

"  Some  director  or  other  to  be  put  off,"  said  others  ; 
"they  have  it  all  their  own  way  on  the  road." 

In  the  mean  time  Draxy  Miller  was  walking  slowly 
up  the  first  street  she  saw,  wondering  what  she  should 
do  next.  The  conductor  had  almost  lifted  her  off  the 
train ;  had  shaken  her  hand,  said  "  God  bless  you, 
Miss,"  and  the  train  was  gone,  before  she  could  be 
sure  he  heard  her  thank  him.  "  Oh,  why  did  I  not 
thank  him  more  before  we  stopped,"  thought  Draxy. 

"  1  hope  she'll  get  her  money,"  thought  the  con- 
ductor. "  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  that  wouldn't  give 
her  what  she  asked  for." 

So  the  benediction  and  protection  of  good  wishes, 


3»  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

from  strangers  as  well  as  from  friends,  floated  on  the 
very  air  through  which  Draxy  walked,  all  unconscious 
of  the  invisible  blessings. 

She  walked  a  long  way  before  she  met  any  one  of 
whom  she  liked  to  ask  direction.  At  last  she  saw  an 
elderly  man  standing  under  a  lamp-post,  reading  a 
letter.  Draxy  studied  his  face,  and  then  stopped  qui- 
etly by  his  side  without  speaking.     He  looked  up. 

"  I  thought  as  soon  as  you  had  finished  your  letter, 
fir,  I  would  ask  you  to  tell  me  where  Stephen  Potter 
lives." 

It  was  marvelous  what  an  ineffable  charm  there  was 
in  the  subtle  mixture  of  courtesy  and  simplicity  in 
Draxy's  manner. 

"  I  am  going  directly  by  his  house  myself,  and  will 
show  you,"  replied  the  old  gentleman.  "  Pray  let  me 
take  your  bag,  Miss." 

"  Was  it  for  you,"  he  added,  suddenly  recollecting 
the  strange  stopping  of  the  express  train,  "  was  it  for 
you  the  express  train  stopped  just  now.?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Draxy.  "The  conductor  very 
kindly  put  me  off." 

The  old  gentleman's  curiosity  was  strongly  roused, 
but  he  forbore  asking  any  further  questions  until  he 
left  Draxy  on  the  steps  of  the  house,  when  he  said  : 
"  are  they  expecting  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  sir,"  said  Draxy  quietly.  "  I  do  not  know 
them." 

"  Most  extraordinary  thing,"  muttered  the  old  gen- 
tleman as  he  walked  on.  He  was  a  lawyer,  and  could 
not  escape  from  the  professional  habit  of  looking  upon 
sill  uncommon  incidents  as  clews. 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  39 

Draxy  Miller's  heart  beat  faster  than  usual  as  she 
vvas  shown  into  Stephen  Potter's  library.  She  had 
said  to  the  servant  simply,  "  Tell  Mr.  Potter  that  Miss 
Miller  would  like  to  see  him  alone." 

The  grandeur  of  the  house,  the  richness  of  the  fur- 
niture, would  have  embarrassed  her,  except  that  it 
made  her  stern  as  she  thought  of  her  father's  pov- 
erty. "  How  little  a  sum  it  must  be  to  this  man,"  she 
thought. 

The  name  roused  no  associations  in  Stephen  Potter  \ 
for  years  the  thought  of  Reuben  Miller  had  not  crossed 
his  mind,  and  as  he  looked  in  the  face  of  the  tall,  beau- 
tiful girl  who  rose  as  he  entered  the  room,  he  was  ut- 
terly confounded  to  hear  her  say,  — 

'^  I  am  Reuben  Miller's  daughter.  I  have  come  to 
see  if  you  will  pay  me  the  money  you  owe  him.  We 
are  very  poor,  and  need  it  more  than  you  probably  can 
conceive." 

Stephen  Potter  was  a  bad  man,  but  not  a  hard- 
hearted bad  man.  He  had  been  dishonest  always  ; 
but  it  was  the  dishonesty  of  a  weak  and  unscrupulous 
nature,  not  without  generosity.  At  that  moment  a 
sharp  pang  seized  him.  He  remembered  the  simple, 
upright,  kindly  face  of  Reuben  Miller.  He  saw  the 
same  look  of  simple  uprightness,  kindled  by  strength, 
in  the  beautiful  face  of  Reuben  Miller's  daughter.  He 
did  not  know  what  to  say.  Draxy  waited  in  perfect 
composure  and  silence.  It  seemed  to  him  hours  be- 
fore he  spoke.  Then  he  said,  in  a  miserable,  shuffling 
way,— 

"  I  suppose  you  think  me  a  rich  man." 

"  I  think  you  must  be  very  rich,"  said  Draxy,  gently 


40  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES, 

Then,  moved  by  some  strange  impulse  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  pure,  unworldly  girl,  Stephen  Potter  sud- 
denly spoke  out,  for  the  first  time  since  his  boyhood, 
with  absolute  sincerity. 

"  Miss  Miller,  you  are  your  father  over  again.  I 
reverenced  your  father.  I  have  wronged  many  men 
without  caring,  but  it  troubled  me  to  wrong  him.  I 
would  give  3^ou  that  money  to-night,  if  I  had  it,  or 
could  raise  it.  I  am  not  a  rich  man.  I  have  not  a 
dollar  in  the  world.  This  house  is  not  mine.  It  may 
be  sold  over  my  head  any  day.  I  am  deep  in  trouble, 
but  not  so  deep  as  I  deserve  to  be,"  and  he  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

Draxy  believed  him.  And  it  was  true.  At  that  mo- 
ment Stephen  Potter  was  really  a  ruined  man,  and 
many  others  were  involved  in  the  ruin  which  was  im- 
pending. 

Drax}'-  rose,  saying  gravely,  "  I  am  very  sorry  for 
you,  Mr.  Potter.  We  heard  that  you  were  rich,  or  I 
should  not  have  come.  We  are  very  poor,  but  we  are 
not  unhapp}?-,  as  you  are." 

"  Stay,  Miss  Miller,  sit  down  ;  I  have  a  thing  which 
might  be  of  value  to  your  father  ; "  and  Mr.  Potter 
opened  his  safe  and  took  out  a  bundle  of  old  yellow 
papers.  "  Here  is  the  title  to  a  lot  of  land  in  the 
northern  part  of  New  Hampshire.  I  took  it  on  a  debt 
years  ago,  and  never  thought  it  was  worth  anything. 
Very  likely  it  has  run  out,  or  the  town  has  taken  pos- 
session of  the  land  for  the  taxes.  But  I  did  think  the 
other  day,  that  if  worst  came  to  worst,  I  might  take 
my  wife  up  there  and  try  to  farm  it.  But  I'd  rather 
pour  father  should  have  it  if  it's  good  for  anything.     I 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  4 1 

took  it  for  three  thousand  dollars,  and  it  ought  to  be 
worth  something.  I  will  have  the  legal  transfer  made 
in  the  morning,  and  give  it  to  you  before  you  leave." 

This  was  not  very  intelligible  to  Draxy.  The  thin 
and  tattered  old  paper  looked  singularly  w^orthless  to 
her.  But  rising  again,  she  said  simply  as  before,  "  I 
am  very  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Potter  ;  and  I  thank  you 
for  trying  to  pay  us !  Will  you  let  some  one  go  and 
show  me  to  the  hotel  where  I  ought  to  sleep  ?  " 

Stephen  Potter  was  embarrassed.  It  cut  him  to  the 
heart  to  send  this  daughter  of  Reuben  Miller's  out  of 
his  house  to  pass  the  night.  But  he  feared  Mrs.  Potter 
very  much.     He  hesitated  only  a  moment. 

"  No,  Miss  Miller.  You  must  sleep  here.  I  will 
have  you  shown  to  your  room  at  once.  I  do  not  ask 
you  to  see  my  wife.  It  would  not  be  pleasant  for  you 
to  do  so."  And  he  rang  the  bell.  When  the  servant 
came,  he  said,  — 

"  William,  have  a  fire  kindled  in  the  blue  room  at 
once ;  as  soon  as  it  is  done,  come  and  let  me  know." 

Then  he  sat  down  near  Draxy  and  asked  many  ques- 
tions about  her  family,  all  of  which  she  answered  with 
childlike  candor.  She  felt  a  strange  sympathy  for  this 
miserable,  stricken,  wicked  man.  When  she  bade 
him  good-night,  she  said  again,  "  I  am  very  sorry  for 
you,  Mr.  Potter.  My  father  would  be  glad  if  he  could 
help  you  in  any  way." 

Stephen  Potter  went  into  the  parlor  where  his  wife 
lat,  reading  a  novel.  She  was  a  very  silly,  frivolous 
w?man,  and  she  cared  nothing  for  her  husband,  but 
when  she  saw  his  face  she  exclaimed,  in  terror,  "What 
^as  it,  Stephen  ? " 


42  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"Only  Reuben  Miller's  daughter,  come  two  days' 
journey  after  some  money  I  owe  her  father  and  cannot 
pay,"  said  Stephen,  bitterly. 

"  Miller  ?  Miller  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Potter,  "  one  of  those 
old  canal  debts  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Well,  of  course  all  those  are  outlawed  long  ago," 
said  she.  "  I  don't  see  why  you  need  worry  about 
that ;  she  can't  touch  you." 

Stephen  looked  scornfully  at  her.  She  had  a  worse 
heart  than  he.  At  that  moment  Draxy's  face  and 
voice,  "  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Potter,"  stood  out 
in  the  very  air  before  him. 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  he,  moodily  ;  "  I  wish  she 
could  !  But  I  shall  give  her  a  deed  of  a  piece  of  New 
Hampshire  land  which  they  may  get  some  good  of. 
God  knows  I  hope  she  may,"  and  he  left  the  room, 
turning  back,  however,  to  add,  "  She  is  to  sleep  here 
to-night.  I  could  not  have  her  go  to  the  hotel.  But 
you  need  take  no  trouble  about  her." 

"  I  should  think  not,  Stephen  Potter,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Potter,  sitting  bolt  upriglit  in  her  angry  astonish- 
ment ;  "  I  never  heard  of  such  impudence  as  her  ex- 
pecting "  — 

"  She  expected  nothing.  I  obliged  her  to  stay,"  in- 
terrupted Stephen,  and  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Potter's  first  impulse  was  to  go  and  order  the 
girl  out  of  her  house.  But  she  thought  better  of  it. 
She  was  often  afraid  of  her  husband  at  this  time  ; 
she  dimly  suspected  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  ruin. 
So  she  sank  back  into  her  chair,  buried  herself  in  her 
novel,  and  soon  forgot  the  interruption. 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  43 

Draxy's  breakfast  and  dinner  were  carried  to  her 
room,  and  every  provision  made  for  her  comfort.  Ste- 
phen Potter's  servants  obeyed  him  always.  No  friend 
of  the  family  could  have  been  more  scrupulously  served 
than  was  Draxy  Miller.  The  man-servant  carried  her 
bag  to  the  station,  touched  his  hat  to  her  as  she 
stepped  on  board  the  train,  and  returned  to  the  house 
to  say  in  the  kitchen  :  "  Well,  I  don't  care  what  she 
come  for ;  she  was  a  real  lady,  fust  to  last,  an'  that's 
more  than  Mr.  Potter's  got  for  a  wife,  I  tell  you." 

When  Stephen  Potter  went  into  his  library  after  bid- 
ding Draxy  good-by,  he  found  on  the  table  a  small 
envelope  addressed  to  him.     It  held  this  note  :  — 

"  Mr.  Potter  :  —  I  would  not  take  the  paper  [the 
word  '  money '  had  been  scratched  out  and  the  word 

*  paper '  substituted]  for  myself ;  but  I  think  I  ought 
to  for  my  father,  because  it  was  a  true  debt,  and  he  is 
an  old  man  now,  and  not  strong. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Potter,  and  I  hope 
you  will  become  happy  again.         Draxy  Miller." 

Draxy  had  intended  to  write,  "  I  hope  you  will  be 

*  good  '  again,"  but  her  heart  failed  her.  "  Perhaps  he 
will  understand  that  'happy'  means  good,"  she  said, 
and  so  wrote  the  gentler  phrase.  Stephen  Potter  did 
understand  ;  and  the  feeble  outreachings  which,  dur- 
ing the  few  miserable  years  more  of  his  life,  he  made 
towards  uprightness,  were  partly  the  fruit  of  Draxy 
Miller's  words. 

Draxy's  journey  home  was  uneventful.  She  was  sad 
and  weary.     The  first  person  she  saw  on  entering  the 


44  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

house  was  her  father.  He  divined  in  an  instant  that 
she  had  been  unsuccessful.  "  Never  mind,  little 
daughter,''  he  said,  gleefully,  "I  am  not  disappointed; 
I  knew  you  would  not  get  it,  but  I  thought  the  jour- 
ney 'd  be  a  good  thing  for  you,  may  be." 

"  But  I  have  got  something,  father  dear,"  said 
Draxy ;  "  only  I'm  afraid  it  is  not  worth  much." 

"  'Taint  likely  to  be  if  Steve  Potter  gave  it,"  said 
Reuben,  as  Draxy  handed  him  the  paper.  He  laughed 
scornfully  as  soon  as  he  looked  at  it.  "  'Taint  worth 
the  paper  it's  writ  on,"  said  he,  ^'  and  he  knew  it ;  if 
he  hain't  looked  the  land  up  all  these  years,  of  course 
'twas  sold  at  vendue  long  ago." 

Draxy  turned  hastily  away.  Up  to  this  moment  she 
had  clung  to  a  little  hope. 

When  the  family  were  all  gathered  together  in  the 
evening,  and  Draxy  had  told  the  story  of  her  adven- 
tures, Reuben  and  Captain  Melville  examined  the 
deed  together.  It  was  apparently  a  good  clear  title  ; 
it  was  of  three  hundred  acres  of  land.  Reuben 
groaned,  "  Oh,  how  I  should  like  to  see  land  by  the 
acre  once  more."  Draxy's  face  turned  scarlet,  and  she 
locked  and  unlocked  her  hands,  but  said  nothing. 
"  But  it's  no  use  thinking  about  it,"  he  went  on  ;  "  this 
paper  isn't  worth  a  straw.  Most  likely  there's  mora 
than  one  man  well  under  way  on  the  land  by  this 
time." 

They  looked  the  place  up  on  an  atlas.  It  was  in 
the  extreme  northeast  corner  of  New  Hampshire.  A 
large  part  of  the  county  was  still  marked  "ungranted," 
and  the  township  in  which  this  land  lay  w^as  bounded 
c)n  the  north  by  this  uninhabited  district.  The  name 
Df  the  town  was  Clairvend. 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY-  4-5 

"What  could  it  have  been  named  for  ? "  said  Draxy. 

''  How  pleasantly  it  sounds." 
"  Most  likely  some  Frenchman,"  sa.J  Captam  MeU 

viUe.      "They  always  give   names   that  re  kind 

""fwe'light  as  well  burn  the  deed  up.     It's  r.^.ing 
but  a  torment  to  think  of  it  a  lym'  round  with  its 
three  hundred  acres  of  land,"  said  Reuben  m  an  im- 
S^fstve  t"one,  very  rare  for  him    and  V^^2:t 
"three  hundred"  with  a  scornful  emphasis,  and 
soran.^  up  to  throw  the  paper  into  the  fire. 
'"No,  no,  man,"  said  Captain  Melville;  "dont  be 
so  hasty.     No  need  of  burning  things  up  m  such  a 
Lnse's   this  1     Something  may  come  of  that 
red^Gve';  to  Draxy;  I'm  sure  she's  earned 
f  J    h  re's   anything  to  it.     Put  it  away  for  your 
dUry,   dear,"  and  he  snatched  the  paper  from  Reu- 
ben's rands  and  tossed  it  into  Draxy's  lap.     Hechd 
'rbelievewhathe  said  and  the  «t  ^    apk 

brought   but   a  f^>-   -:-,-it   ther^tiin:: 

fell    on  the  floor,  and  Draxy  lei  il  i^^ 

fhought  her  father  was   looking   another  way,  when 

she  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in  her  pocket 

For  several  days  there  were  unusual  silence   and 
depression  in  the   household.      They  had   really  se 
far  more  hope  than  they  knew  on  this  venture      I 
wL  not  easy  to  take  up  the  old  routine  and  forget 
Te  1  castle.     Draxy's  friend,  Mrs.  White   was   a- 
most   as  disappointed  as  Draxy  herself     She  had  not 
riht  of  the  chance  of  Mr.  Potter's  being  really  un- 
able to  pay.     She  told  her  husband,  who  was  a  lawyer 
Ihe  story  of  the   deed,  and   he   said  at   once  :     Of 


46  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

course  it  isn't  worth  a  straw.  If  Potter  didn't  pay 
the  taxes,  somebody  else  did,  and  the  land's  been  sold 
long  ago." 

Mrs.  White  tried  to  comfort  herself  by  engaging 
Draxy  for  one  month's  steady  sewing,  and  present- 
ing her  with  a  set  of  George  Eliot's  novels.  And 
Draxy  tried  steadily  and  bravely  to  forget  her  journey, 
and  the  name  of  Clairvend. 

About  this  time  she  wrote  a  hymn,  and  showed  it  to 
her  father.  It  was  the  first  thing  of  the  kind  she  had 
ever  let  him  see,  and  his  surprise  and  delight  showed 
her  that  here  was  one  way  more  in  which  she  could 
brighten  his  life.  She  had  not  thought,  in  her  ex- 
treme humility,  that  by  hiding  her  verses  she  was 
depriving  him  of  pleasure.  After  this  she  showed 
him  all  she  wrote,  but  the  secret  was  kept  religiously 
between  them. 


draxy's  hymn. 

I  cannot  think  but  God  must  know 
About  the  thing  I  long  for  so  ; 
I  know  He  is  so  good,  so  kind, 
I  cannot  think  but  He  will  find 
Some  way  to  help,  some  way  to  show 
Me  to  the  thing  I  long  for  so. 

I  stretch  my  hand  —  it  lies  so  near : 
It  looks  so  sweet,  it  looks  so  dear. 
'  Dear  Lord,"  I  pray,  "  Oh,  let  me  know 
If  it  is  wrong  to  want  it  so  ?  " 
He  only  smiles  —  He  does  not  speak : 
My  heart  grows  weaker  and  more  weak. 
With  looking  at  the  thing  so  dear, 
Which  lies  so  far,  and  yet  so  near. 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY  47 

Now,  Lord,  I  leave  at  thy  loved  feet 
This  thing  which  looks  so  near,  so  sweet ; 
I  will  not  seek,  I  will  not  long  — 
I  almost  fear  I  have  been  wrong- 
I'll  go,  and  work  the  harder.  Lord, 
And  wait  till  by  some  loud,  clear  word 
Thou  callest  me  to  thy  loved  feet, 
To  take  this  thing  so  dear,  so  sweet. 


PART  II. 

As  t>€  spring  drew  near,  a  new  anxiety  began  to 
press  upon  Draxy.  Reuben  drooped.  The  sea-shore 
had  never  suited  him.  He  pined  at  heart  for  the  in- 
land air,  the  green  fields,  the  fragrant  woods.  This 
yearning  always  was  strongest  in  the  spring,  when  he 
saw  the  earth  waking  up  around  him  ;  but  now  the 
yearning  became  more  than  yearning.  It  was  the 
home-sickness  of  which  men  have  died.  Reuben  said 
little,  but  Draxy  divined  all.  She  had  known  it  from 
the  first,  but  had  tried  to  hope  that  he  could  conquer 

it. 

Draxy   spent   many   wakeful    hours    at    night  now. 

The   deed    of  the   New  Hampshire   land   lay  in  her 

upper  bureau  drawer,  wrapped  in  an  old  handkerchief. 

She  read  it  over,  and  over,  and  over.     She   looked 

again    and    again    at   the   faded    pink    township    on 

the  old  atlas.     "  Who  knows,"  thought  she,  "  but  that 

land  was  overlooked  and  forgotten  ?     It   is    so   near 

the   ^ungranted   lands,'  which    must  be  wilderness,  I 

suppose  !  "      Slowly    a    dim    purpose    struggled    in 

Draxy's  brain.     It   would  do    no  harm    to  find    out. 

But  how  ?     No  more  journeys  must  be  taken  on  un- 


48  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

certainties.  At  last,  late  one  night,  the  inspiration 
came.  Who  shall  say  that  it  is  not  an  unseen  power 
which  sometimes  suggests  to  sorely  tried  human  hearts 
the  one  possible  escape  ?  Draxy  was  in  bed.  She 
rose,  lighted  her  candle,  and  wrote  two  letters.  Then 
she  went  back  to  bed  and  slept  peacefully.  In  the 
morning  when  she  kissed  her  father  good-by,  she 
looked  wistfully  in  his  face.  She  had  never  kept  any 
secret  from  him  before,  except  the  secret  of  her  verses. 
"  But  he  must  not  be  disappointed  again,"  said  Draxy  ; 
"  and  there  is  no  real  hope." 

She  dropped  her  letter  into  the  post-office  and 
went  to  her  work. 

The  letter  was  addressed  — 

"  To  the  Postmaster  of  Clairvend, 

"  New  Hampshire." 

It  was  a  ver}^  short  letter. 

"  Dear  Sir  :  —  I  wish  to  ask  some  help  from  a 
minister  in  your  town.  If  there  is  more  than  one 
minister,  will  you  please  give  my  letter  to  the  kindest 
one.  Yours  truly, 

"  Draxy  Miller." 

The  letter  inclosed  was  addressed  — 
"  To  the  Minister  of  Clairvend." 
This  letter  also  was  short. 

"  Dear  Sir  :  —  I  have  asked  the  Postmaster  to  give 
this  letter  to  the  kindest  minister  in  the  town. 

"I  am  Reuben  Miller's  daughter.  My  father  is 
very  poor.     He  has  not  known  how  to  do  as    other 


DRAXY  MILLER'S   DOWRY.  49 

men  do  to  be  rich.  He  is  very  good,  sir.  I  think 
you  can  hardly  have  known  any  one  so  good.  Mr. 
Stephen  Potter,  a  man  who  owed  him  money,  has 
given  us  a  deed  of  land  in  your  town.  My  father 
thinks  the  deed  is  not  good  for  anything.  But  I 
thought  perhaps  it  might  be  ;  and  I  would  try  to  find 
out.  My  father  is  very  sick,  but  I  think  he  would 
get  well  if  he  could  come  and  live  on  a  farm.  I  have 
written  this  letter  in  the  night,  as  soon  as  I  thought 
about  you  \  I  mean  as  soon  as  I  thought  that  there 
must  be  a  minister  in  Clairvend,  and  he  would  be 
willing  to  help  me. 

"I  have  not  told  my  father,  because  I  do  not  want 
him  to  be  disappointed  again  as  he  w^as  about  the 
deed. 

"  I  have  copied  for  you  the  part  of  the  deed  which 
tells  where  the  land  is  ;  and  I  put  in  a  stamp  to  pay 
for  your  letter  to  me,  and  if  you  will  find  out  for  us  if 
we  can  get  this  land,  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you  all  my 
life.  Draxy  Miller." 

Inclosed  was  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  Draxy  had 
copied  with  great  care  the  description  of  the  bounda- 
ries of  the  land  conveyed  by  the  deed.  It  was  all 
that  was  necessary.  The  wisest  lawyer,  the  shrewdest 
diplomatist  in  the  land  never  put  forth  a  subtler 
weapon  than  this  simple  girl's  simple  letter. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  April  that  Draxy 
dropped  her  letter  in  the  office.  Three  days  later  it 
was  taken  out  of  the  mail-bag  in  the  post-office  of 
Clairvend.  The  post-office  was  in  the  one  store  of 
the  village.    Ten  or  a  dozen  men  were  lounging  about 


50  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES, 

the  store,  as  usual,  smoking  and  talking  in  the  inert 
way  peculiar  to  rural  New  England.  An  old  window 
had  been  set  up  on  one  end  of  the  counter,  and  a  lat- 
ticed gate  shut  off  that  corner  of  the  space  behind  to 
make  the  post-office. 

Now  and  then  one  of  the  men  flattened  his  face 
against  the  dusty  panes  and  peered  through  ;  but 
there  was  small  interest  in  the  little  mail ;  nobody 
expected  letters  in  Clairvend^  and  generally  nobody 
got  them.  In  a  few  moments  the  sorting  was  all  over, 
but  as  the  postmaster  took  up  the  last  letter  he  ut- 
tered an  ejaculation  of  surprise.  "  Well,  that's  queer," 
said  he,  as  he  proceeded  to  open  it. 

"  What  is  it,  John .? "  said  two  or  three  of  the  by- 
standers at  once. 

Mr.  Turner  did  not  answer ;  he  was  turning  the 
letter  over  and  over,  and  holding  it  closer  to  the 
smoky  kerosene  lamp. 

"  Well,  that's  queer  enough,  I  vow.  I'd  like  to 
know  if  that's  a  girl  or  a  boy  "i  "  he  went  on. 

"Jest  you  read  that  letter  loud,"  called  some  one, 
**  if  it  ain't  no  secret." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  there  is  a  secret  ;  but  it's  inside 
the  inside  letter,"  said  the  postmaster  ;  "  there  ain't  no 
great  secret  in  mine/'  and  then  he  read  aloud  Draxy's 
simple  words  to  the  postmaster  of  Clairvend. 

The  men  gathered  up  closer  to  the  counter  and 
looked  over. 

'*  It's  a  gal's  writing,"  said  one ;  "  but  that  ain't  no 
gal's  name." 

"  Wal,  'd  ye  ever  hear  of  it's  bein'  a  boy's  name 
Quther  ? "   said   a   boy,   pressing   forward.      But    the 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  51 

curiosity  about  the  odd  name  was  soon  swallowed  up 
in  curiosity  as  to  the  contents  of  the  letter.  The 
men  of  Clairvend  had  not  been  so  stirred  and  roused 
by  anything  since  the  fall  election.  Luckily  for 
Draxy's  poor  little  letter,  there  was  but  one  minister 
in  the  village,  and  the  only  strife  which  rose  was  as 
to  who  should  carry  him  the  letter.  Finally,  two  of 
the  most  persistent  set  out  with  it,  both  declaring 
that  they  had  business  on  that  road,  and  had  meant 
all  along  to  go  in  and  see  the  Elder  on  their  way 
home. 

Elder  Kinney  lived  in  a  small  cottage  high  up  on  a 
hill,  a  mile  from  the  post-office,  and  on  a  road  very 
little  travelled.  As  the  men  toiled  up  this  hill,  they 
saw  a  tall  figure  coming  rapidly  towards  them. 

"  By  thunder  !  there's  the  Elder  now  !  That's  too 
bad,"  said  little  Eben  Hill,  the  greatest  gossip  in  the 
town. 

The  Elder  was  walking  at  his  most  rapid  rate ; 
and  Elder  Kinney's  most  rapid  rate  was  said  to  be 
one  with  which  horses  did  not  easily  keep  up.  *'  No, 
thank  you,  friend,  I  haven't  time  to  ride  to-day,"  he 
often  replied  to  a  parishioner  who,  jogging  along  with 
an  old  farm-horse,  offered  to  give  him  a  lift  on  the 
road. 

"  Elder !  Elder  !  here's  a  letter  we  was  a  bringin' 
up  to  you  ! "  called  out  both  of  the  men  at  once  as  he 
passed  them  like  a  flash,  saying  hurriedly  "Good 
evening  !  good  evening  !  "  and  was  many  steps  down 
ihe  hill  beyond  them  before  he  could  stop. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  "  he  said,  taking  it  hastily  and 
droj^ping  it  into  his  pocket.    "  Mrs.  Williams  is  dying, 


52  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

they  say  ;  I  cannot  stop  a  minute,"  and  he  was  out 
of  sight  while  the  baffled  parishioners  stood  con- 
founded at  their  ill-luck. 

"  Now  jest  as  like's  not  we  shan't  never  know  what 
was  in  that  letter,"  said  Eben  Hill,  disconsolately. 
"  Ef  we'd  ha'  gone  in  and  set  down  while  he  read  it, 
we  sh'd  ha'  had  some  chance." 

"  But  then  he  mightn't  ha'  read  it  while  we  was 
there,"  replied  Joseph  Bailey  resignedly  ;  an'  I  expect 
it  ain't  none  o'  our  business  anyhow,  one  way  or 
t'other." 

*•  It's  the  queerest  thing's  ever  happened  in  this 
town,"  persisted  Eben  ;  "  what's  a  girl  —  that  is,  if  'tis 
a  girl  —  got  to  do  writin'  to  a  minister  she  don't  know  ? 
I  don't  believe  it's  any  good  she's  after." 

"  Wal,  ef  she  is,  she's  come  to  the  right  place  ;  and 
<here's  no  knowin'  but  that  the  Lord's  guided  her, 
Eben  ;  for  ef  ever  there  was  a  man  sent  on  this  airth 
to  do  the  Lord's  odd  jobs  o'  looking  arter  folks,  it's 
Elder  Kinney,"  said  Joseph. 

"  That's  so,"  answered  Eben  in  a  dismal  tone, 
"  that's  so ;  but  he's  dreadful  close-mouthed  when 
he's  a  mind  to  be.     You  can't  deny  that !  " 

"  Wal,  I  dunno's  I  want  ter  deny  it,"  said  Joseph, 
who  was  beginning,  in  Eben's  company,  to  grow 
ashamed  of  curiosity  ;  "  I  dunno's  it's  anything  agin 
him,"  and  so  the  men  parted. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  Elder  Kinney  went  home 
from  the  bedside  of  the  dying  woman.  He  had  for- 
gotten all  about  the  letter.  When  he  undressed,  it 
fell  from  his  pocket,  and  lay  on  the  floor.  It  was  the 
first   thing  he  saw   in    the    morning.     "  I    declare  !  ** 


DKAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  53 

said  the  Elder,  and  reaching  out  a  long  arm  from  the 
bed,  he  picked  it  up. 

The  bright  winter  sun  was  streaming  in  on  the  Elder's 
face  as  he  read  Draxy's  letter.  He  let  it  fall  on  the 
scarlet  and  white  counterpane,  and  lay  thinking.  The 
letter  touched  him  unspeakably.  Elder  Kinney  was 
no  common  man  ;  he  had  a  sensitive  organization  and  a 
magnetic  power,  which,  if  he  had  had  the  advantages 
of  education  and  position,  would  have  made  him  a  dis- 
tinguished preacher.  As  a  man,  he  was  tender,  chiv- 
alrous, and  impulsive  ;  and  even  the  rough,  cold,  unde- 
monstrative people  among  whom  his  life  had  been 
spent  had,  without  suspecting  it,  almost  a  romantic 
affection  for  him.  He  had  buried  his  young  wife  and 
her  first-born  still-born  child  together  in  this  litde  vil- 
lage twelve  years  before,  and  had  ever  since  lived  in 
the  same  house  from  which  they  had  been  carried  to 
the  grave-yard.  "  If  you  ever  want  any  other  man  to 
preach  to  you,"  he  said  to  the  people,  "  you've  only  to 
say  so  to  the  Conference.  I  don't  want  to  preach  one 
sermon  too  many  to  you.  But  I  shall  live  and  die  in 
this  house ;  I  can't  ever  go  away.  I  can  get  a  good 
livin'  at  farmin'  —  good  as  preachin',  any  day  !  " 

The  sentence,  "I  am  Reuben  Miller's  daughter," 
went  to  his  heart  as  it  had  gone  to  every  man's  heart 
who  had  heard  it  before  from  Draxy's  unconscious 
lips.  But  it  sunk  deeper  in  his  heart  than  in  any 
other. 

*'  If  baby  had  lived  she  would  have  loved  me  like 
this  perhaps,"  thought  the  Elder,  as  he  read  the  pa- 
thetic words  over  and  over.  Then  he  studied  the 
paragraph  copied  from  the  deed.     Suddenly  a  thought 


54  SAKE  HOLATS  STORIES. 

flashed  into  his  mind.  He  knew  something  about 
this  land.  It  must  be  —  yes,  it  must  be  on  a  part  of 
this  land  that  the  sugar-camp  lay  from  which  he  had 
been  sent  for,  five  years  before,  to  see  a  Frenchman 
who  was  lying  very  ill  in  the  little  log  sugar-house. 
The  Elder  racked  his  brains.  Slowly  it  all  came  back 
to  him.  He  remembered  that  at  the  time  some  ill- 
will  had  been  shown  in  the  town  toward  this  French- 
man ;  that  doubts  had  been  expressed  about  his  right 
to  the  land  ;  and  that  no  one  would  go  out  into  the 
clearing  to  help  take  care  of  him.  Occasionally,  since 
that  time,  the  Elder  had  seen  the  man  hanging  about 
the  town.  He  had  an  evil  look  ;  this  was  all  the 
Elder  could  remember. 

At  breakfast  he  said  to  old  Nancy,  his  housekeeper : 
"  Nancy,  did  you  ever  know  anything  about  that 
Frenchman  who  had  a  sugar-camp  out  back  of  the 
swamp  road  ?  I  went  to  see  him  when  he  had  the 
fever  a  few  years  ago." 

Nancy  was  an  Indian  woman  with  a  little  white 
blood  in  her  veins.  She  never  forgot  an  injury.  This 
Frenchman  had  once  jeered  at  her  from  the  steps  of 
the  village  store,  and  the  village  men  had  laughed. 

"  Know  anythin'  about  him  ?  Yes,  sir.  He's  a  son 
o'  Satan,  an'  I  reckon  he  stays  to  hum  the  great  part 
o'  the  year,  for  he's  never  seen  round  here  except  jest 
sugarin'  time." 

The  Elder  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  Nancy's 
tongue  was  a  member  of  which  he  strongly  disap- 
proved ;  but  his  efforts  to  enforce  charity  and  propriety 
of  speech  upon  her  were  sometimes  rendered  null  and 
roid  by  his  lack  of  control  of  his  features.     Nancy 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  55 

loved  her  master,  but  she  had  no  reverence  in  her 
composition,  and  nothing  gave  her  such  delight  as  to 
make  him  laugh  out  against  his  will.  She  went  on  to 
say  that  the  Frenchman  came  every  spring,  bringing 
with  him  a  gang  of  men,  some  twelve  or  more,  "  all 
sons  o'  the  same  father,  sir ;  you'd  know  'em's  far's 
you  see  'em."  They  took  a  large  stock  of  provisions, 
went  out  into  the  maple  clearing,  and  lived  there  dur- 
ing the  whole  sugar  season  in  rough  log  huts.  "  They 
do  say  he's  jest  carried  off  a  good  thousand  dollar's 
worth  o'  sugar  this  very  week,". said  Nancy. 

The  Elder  brought  his  hand  down  hard  on  the  table 
and  said  "  Whew  !  "  This  was  Elder  Kinney's  one 
ejaculation.  Nancy  seldom  heard  it,  and  she  knew 
it  meant  tremendous  excitement.  She  grew  eager, 
and  lingered,  hoping  for  further  questions  ;  but  the 
Elder  wanted  his  next  information  from  a  more  accu- 
rate and  trustworthy  source  than  old  Nancy.  Imme- 
diately after  breakfast  he  set  out  for  the  village  ;  soon 
he  slackened  his  pace,  and  began  to  reflect.  It  was 
necessary  to  act  cautiously  ;  he  felt  instinctively  sure 
that  the  Frenchman  had  not  purchased  the  land.  His 
occupation  of  it  had  evidently  been  acquiesced  in  by 
the  town  for  many  years  ;  but  the  Elder  was  too  well 
aware  of  the  slack  and  unbusiness-like  way  in  which 
much  of  the  town  business  was  managed,  to  attach 
much  weight  to  this  fact.  He  was  perplexed  —  a  rare 
thing  for  Elder  Kinney.  He  stopped  and  sat  down 
on  the  top  of  a  stone  wall  to  think.  In  a  few  minutes 
tie  saw  the  steaming  heads  of  a  pair  of  oxen  coming 
up  the  hill.     Slowly  the  cart  came  in  sight:  it  was 


56  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

loaded  with  sugar-buckets  ;  and  there,  walking  by  its 
side,  was  —  yes  !  it  was  —  the  very  Frenchman  him- 
self. 

Elder  Kinney  was  too  much  astonished  even  to  say 
"  Whew !  " 

"This  begins  to  look  like  the  Lord's  own  busi- 
ness," was  the  first  impulsive  thought  of  his  devout 
heart.  "  There's  plainly  something  to  be  done.  That 
little  Draxy's  father  shall  get  some  o'  the  next  year's 
sugar  out  o'  that  camp,  or  my  name  isn't  Seth  Kin- 
ney ;"  and  the  Elder  .sprang  from  the  wall  and  walked 
briskly  towards  the  Frenchman.  As  he  drew  near 
him,  and  saw  the  forbidding  look  on  the  fellow's  face, 
he  suddenly  abandoned  his  first  intention,  which  was 
to  speak  to  him,  and,  merely  bowing,  passed  on  down 
the  hill. 

"  He's  a  villain,  if  I  know  the  look  of  one,"  said 
honest  Elder.  "  I'll  think  a  little  longer.  I  wonder 
where  he  stores  his  buckets.  Now,  there's  a  chance," 
and  Elder  Kinney  turned  about  and  followed  the  plod- 
ding cart  up  the  hill  again.  It  was  a  long  pull  and  a 
tedious  one  ;  and  for  Elder  Kinney  to  keep  behind 
oxen  was  a  torture  like  being  in  a  straight  waistcoat. 
One  mile,  two  miles,  three  miles  !  the  Elder  half  re- 
pented of  his  undertaking ;  but  like  all  wise  and  mag- 
netic natures,  he  had  'great  faith  in  his  first  impulses, 
and  he  kept  on. 

At  last  the  cart  turned  into  a  lane  on  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  road. 

"  Why,  he's  goin'  to  old  Ike's,"  exclaimed  the  Elder. 
"*Well,  I  can  get  at  all  old  Ike  knows,  and  it's  prett}! 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  57 

apt  to  be  all  there  is  worth  knowin',"  and  Elder  Kin- 
ney began,  in  his  satisfaction,  to  whistle 

**  Life  is  the  time  to  serve  the  Lord," 

in  notes  as  clear  and  loud  as  a  bob-o'-link's. 

He  walked  on  rapidly,  and  was  very  near  overtak- 
ing the  Frenchman,  when  a  new  thought  struck  him. 
"  Now,  if  he's  uneasy  about  himself,  —  and  if  he 
knows  he  ain't  honest,  of  course  he's  uneasy,  —  he'll 
may  be  think  I'm  on  his  track,  and  be  off  to  his  '  hum,' 
as  Nancy  calls  it,"  and  the  Elder  chuckled  at  the 
memory,  "  an'  I  shouldn't  have  any  chance  of  ketchin* 
him  here  for  another  year,"  The  Elder  stood  still 
again.  Presently  he  jumped  a  fence,  and  walking  off 
to  the  left,  climbed  a  hill,  from  the  top  of  which  he 
could  see  old  Ike's  house.  Here,  in  the  edge  of  a 
spruce  grove,  he  walked  back  and  forth,  watching  the 
proceedings  below.  "  Seems  little  too  much  like  bein' 
a  spy,"  thought  the  good  man,  "  but  I  never  felt  a 
clearer  call  in  a  thing  in  my  life  than  I  do  in  this  little 
girl's  letter,"  and  he  fell  to  singing 

"  Rise,  my  soul,  and  stretch  thy  wings,  *' 

till  the  crows  in  the  wood  were  frightened  by  the 
strange  sound,  and  came  flying  out  and  flapping  their 
great  wings  above  his  head. 

The  Frenchman  drove  into  old  Ike's  yard.  Ike 
came  out  of  the  house  and  helped  him  unload  the 
buckets,  and  carry  them  into  an  old  corn-house  which 
stood  behind  the  barn.  As  soon  as  the  Frenchman 
had  turned  his  oxen's  head  down  the  lane,  the  Elder 
set  out  for  the  house,  across  the  fields.  Old  Ike  was 
Standing  in  the  barn-door.     When  he  saw  the  tall  fig- 


58  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

ure  striding  through  the  pasture,  he  ran  to  let  down 
the  bars^  and  hurried  up  to  the  Elder  and  grasped  both 
his  hands.  Not  in  all  Elder  Kinney's  parish  was  there 
a  single  heart  which  beat  so  warmly  for  him  as  did  the 
heart  of  this  poor  lonely  old  man,  who  had  lived  b}^ 
himself  in  this  solitary  valley  ever  since  the  Elder 
came  to  Clairvend. 

"  Ohj  Elder,  Elder,"  said  he,  "it  does  me  reel  good 
to  see  your  face.  Be  ye  well,  sir  ?  "  looking  closely  at 
him. 

"  Yes,  Ike,  thank  you,  I'm  always  well,"  replied  the 
Elder  absently.  He  was  too  absorbed  in  his  errand 
to  have  precisely  his  usual  manner,  and  it  was  the 
slight  change  which  Ike's  affectionate  instinct  felt. 
But  Ike  saved  him  all  perplexity  as  to  introducing  the 
object  of  his  visit  by  saying  at  once,  picking  up  one 
of  the  sugar-buckets  which  had  rolled  off  to  one  side, 
"  I'm  jest  pilin'  up  Ganew's  sugar-buckets  for  him. 
He  pays  me  well  for  storin'  'em,  but  I  kind  o'  hate  to 
have  anythin'  to  do  with  him.  Don't  you  remember 
him,  sir  —  him  that  w^as  so  awful  bad  with  the  fever 
down'n  the  clearin'  five  years  ago  this  month  ?  You 
was  down  to  see  him,  I  know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember,"  said  the  Elder,  with  a  man- 
ner so  nonchalant  that  he  was  frightened  at  his  own 
diplomacy.    ''  He  was  a  bad  fellow,  I  thought." 

Ike  went  on  :  "  Wall,  that's  everybody's  feelin'  about 
him  :  and  there  ain't  no  great  thing  to  show  for 't 
nuther.  But  they  did  say  a  while  back  that  he  hadn't 
no  reel  right  to  the  land.  He  turned  up  all  of  a  sud- 
den, and  paid  up  all  there  was  owin'  on  the  taxes,  an' 
he's  paid  'em  regular  ever  sence.     But  he  hain't  never 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY. 


59 


showed  how  the  notes  come  to  be  signed  by  some  other 
name.  Yes^  sir,  the  hull  lot  —  it's  nigh  on  ter  three 
hundred  acres,  such's  'tis  ;  a  good  part  on't  's  swamp 
though,  that  ain't  wuth  a  copper  —  the  hull  lot  went  to 
a  man  down  in  York  State,  when  the  Iron  Company 
bust  up  here,  and  for  two  or  three  year  the  chap  he 
jest  sent  up  his  note  for  the  taxes,  and  they've  a  dref- 
ful  shifdess  way  o'  lettin'  things  go  in  this  ere  town, 
's  you  know,  sir;  there  wan't  nobody  that  knowed 
what  a  sugar  orchard  was  a  lyin'  in  there,  or  there'd 
been  plenty  to  grab  for  it ;  but  I  don't  s'pose  there's 
three  men  in  the  town'd  ever  been  over  back  o'  Birch 
Hill  till  this  Ganew  he  come  and  cut  a  road  in,  and 
had  his  sugar-camp  agoin'  one  spring,  afore  anybody 
knew  what  he  was  arter.  But  he's  paid  all  up  reg'lar, 
and  well  he  may,  sez  everybody,  for  he  can't  get  his 
sugar  off,  sly's  he  is,  w'thout  folks  gettin'  some  kind 
o'  notion  about  it,  an'  they  say's  he's  cleared  thousands 
an'  thousands  o'  dollars.  I  expect  they  ain't  overshot 
the  mark  nuther,  for  he's  got  six  hundred  new  buckets 
this  spring,  and  Bill  Sims,  he's  been  in  with  'em  the 
last  two  years,  'n  he  says  there  ain't  no  sugar  orchard 
to  compare,  except  Squire  White's  over  in  Mill  Creek, 
and  he's  often  taken  in  three  thousand  pounds  off 
his'n." 

Ike  sighed  as  he  paused,  breathless.  **  It's  jest  my 
luck,  allers  knockin'  about  'n  them  woods  's  I  am.  not 
to  have  struck  trail  on  that  air  orchard.  I  could  ha' 
bought  it's  well 's  not  in  the  fust  on't,  if  it  had  been 
put  up  to  vendue,  's  't  oughter  ben,  an'  nobody  knowin' 
what  'twas  wuth." 

Elder  Kinney  was  almost  overcome  by  this  unhoped 


6o  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

or  corroboration  of  his  instincts  ;  clearing  up  of  his 
difficulties.  His  voice  sounded  hoarse  in  his  own  ears 
as  he  replied  :  — 

"Well,  Ike,  the  longest  lane  has  a  turnin'.  It's  my 
belief  that  God  doesn't  often  let  dishonest  people  pros- 
per very  long.  We  shall  see  what  becomes  of  Ganew. 
Where  does  he  live  ?     I'd  like  to  see  him." 

"Well,  he  don't  live  nowhere,  's  near's  anybody 
can  find  out.  He's  in  the  camp  with  the  gang  about 
six  weeks,  sometimes  eight ;  they  say's  it's  a  kind 
of  settlement  down  there,  an'  then  he's  off  again  till 
sugarin'  comes  round ;  but  he's  dreadful  sharp  and 
partikler  about  the  taxes,  I  tell  you,  and  he's  given  a 
good  deal  too,  fust  and  last,  to  the  town.  Folks  say 
he  wants  to  make  'em  satisfied  to  let  him  alone.  He's 
coming  up  here  again  to-morrow  with  two  more  loads 
of  buckets,  sir :  if  'twouldn't  be  too  much  trouble  for 
you  to  come  here  agin  so  soon,"  added  poor  Ike, 
grasping  at  the  chance  of  seeing  the  Elder  again. 

"  Well,  I  think  perhaps  I'll  come,"  replied  the 
Elder,  ashamed  again  of  the  readiness  with  which  he 
found  himself  taking  to  tortuous  methods,  "if  I'm 
not  too  busy.     What  time  will  he  be  here  .'' " 

"  About  this  same  time,"  said  Ike.  "  He  don't 
fvaste  no  time,  mornin'  nor  evenin'." 

The  Elder  went  away  soon,  leaving  poor  Ike  half 
unhappy. 

"  He's  got  somethin'  on  his  mind,  thet's  plain 
enough,"  thought  the  loving  old  soul.  "  I  wonder 
now  ef  it's  a  woman  ;  I've  alius  thought  the  Elder 
war'nt  no  sort  of  man  to  live  alone  all  his  days." 

"  Dear,  good  little  Drax}',"  thought  the  Elder,  as  he 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  6 1 

walked  down  the  Yoad,  "How  shall  I  ever  tell  the 
Lhild  of  this  good  luck,  and  how  shall  I  manage  it  all 
for  the  best  for  her  ?  " 

Draxy's  interests  were  in  good  hands.  Before  night 
Elder  Kinney  had  ascertained  that  there  had  never 
been  any  sale  of  this  land  since  it  was  sold  to  "  the 
New  York  chap,"  and  that  Ganew's  occupation  of  it 
was  illegal.  After  tea  the  Elder  sat  down  and  wrote 
two  letters. 

The  first  one  was  to  Draxy,  and  ran  as  follows :  — 

"  My  Dear  Child  :  — 

"  I  received  your  letter  last  night,  and  by  the  Lord's 
help  I  have  found  out  all  about  your  father's  land  to- 
day. But  I  shall  write  to  your  father  about  it,  for 
you  could  not  understand. 

"  I  wish  the  Lord  had  seen  fit  to  give  me  just  such 
a  daughter  as  you  are. 

"  Your  friend, 

"  Seth  Kinney." 

The  letter  to  Reuben  was  very  long,  giving  in  sub- 
stance the  facts  which  have  been  told  above,  and  con- 
cluding thus  :  — 

*'  I  feel  a  great  call  from  the  Lord  to  do  all  I  can 
in  this  business,  and  I  hope  you  won't  take  it  amiss 
if  I  make  bold  to  decide  what's  best  to  be  done  with- 
out consulting  you.  This  fellow's  got  to  be  dealt  with 
pretty  sharp,  and  I,  being  on  the  ground,  can  look 
after  him  better  than  you  can.  But  I'll  guarantee 
that  you'll  have  possession  of  that  land  before  many 
weeks."     He   then  asked  Reuben  to  have  an  exact 


62  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

copy  of  the  deed  made  out  and  forwarded  to  him  j 
also  any  other  papers  which  might  throw  Hght  on  the 
transfer  of  the  property,  sixteen  years  back.  "  Not 
that  I  calculate  there'll  be  any  trouble,"  he  added  ; 
"  we  don't  deal  much  in  lawyer's  tricks  up  here,  but 
it's  just  as  well  to  be  provided." 

The  Elder  went  to  the  post-office  before  breakfast 
to  post  this  letter.  The  address  did  not  escape  the 
eyes  of  the  postmaster.  Before  noon  Eben  Hill  knew 
that  the  Elder  had  written  right  off  by  the  first  mail 
to  a  "  Miss  Draxy  Miller." 

Meantime  the  Elder  was  sitting  in  the  doorway  of 
old  Ike's  barn  waiting  for  the  Frenchman  ;  ten  o'clock 
came,  eleven,  twelve  —  he  did  not  appear. 

The  Elder's  uneasiness  grew  great,  but  he  talked 
on  and  on  till  poor  Ike  was  beside  himself  with  de- 
light. At  last  the  distant  creak  of  the  wheels  was 
heard.  "  There  he  is,"  exclaimed  Ike.  "  I'm  think- 
ing, sir,  that  it's  a  kind  o'  providential  dispensation 
thet's  hendered  him  all  this  time  ;  it's  done  me  such 
a  sight  o'  good  to  hear  you  talk." 

The  Elder  smiled  tenderly  on  poor  old  Ike. 

"  Everything  is  a  dispensation,  Ike,  accordin'  to 
my  way  o'  thinkin' ;  "  and  again  he  thought  involun- 
tarily of  "  little  Draxy." 

Ganew  assented  with  a  half-surly  civility  to  Elder 
Spinney's  proposition  to  ride  down  with  him. 

"  I've  got  a  matter  of  business  to  talk  over  with 
you,  Mr.  Ganew,"  said  the  Elder,  "  and  I  came  up 
here  on  purpose  to  find  you." 

The  man  turned  his  stolid  black  eyes  full  on  the 
Elder,  but  made  no  reply.     It   was   indeed    an   evil 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  63 

face.  The  Elder  was  conscious  that  impulses  which 
he  feared  were  unchristian  were  rising  rapidly  in  his 
breast.  He  had  wished  a  few  times  before  in  his 
life  that  he  was  not  a  minister.  He  wished  it  now. 
He  would  have  liked  to  open  his  conversation  wdth 
Ganew  after  the  manner  of  the  world's  people  when 
they  deal  with  thieves.  And  again  he  thought  invol- 
untarily of  "  little  Draxy,"  and  her  touching  "we  are 
very  poor." 

But  when  he  spoke,  he  spoke  gently  and  slowly. 

"  I  have  some  news  for  you  which  will  be  very  dis- 
agreeable, Mr.  Ganew."  Here  the  Frenchman  started, 
with  such  a  terrified,  guilty,  malignant  look  on  his 
face,  that  the  Elder  said  to  himself:  "Good  God,  I 
believe  the  man  knows  he's  in  danger  of  his  life. 
Stealin's  the  least  of  his  crimes,  I'll  venture." 

He  proceeded  still  more  gently.  "  The  owners  of 
the  land  which  you've  been  using  as  your  own  in  this 
town,  have  written  to  inquire  about  it,  and  have  put 
the  business  in  my  hands." 

Ganew  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  trying  to 
speak  in  an  indignant  tone,  he  said,  — 

"  Using  as  my  own  !  I  don't  know  what  you  mean, 
Mr.  Parson.  I  have  paid  my  taxes  all  regular,  and 
I've  got  the  title-deeds  of  the  land,  every  acre  of  it. 
T  can't  help  whoever's  been  writing  to  you  about  it ; 
It's  all  my  land." 

But  his  face  twitched  with  nervous  excitement,  and 
the  fright  and  anger  in  his  serpent-like  black  eyes 
were  ugly  to  see. 

"  No,  Mr.  Ganew,  it  is  not,"  said  the  Elder  ;  "  and 
fou  know  it.     Now  you  jest  listen  to  me  ;  I  know  the 


64  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

whole  truth  about  the  matter,  an'  all  the  time  you 
spend  fightin'  off  the  truth'll  be  wasted,  besides  addin' 
lyin'  to  havin'  been  a  thief.  The  owners  of  the  land'll 
be  here,  I  expect  before  long  ;  but  they've  put  it  all  in 
my  hands,  an'  I  can  let  you  off  if  I  choose." 

"  Let  me  off!  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?  "  said 
Ganew. 

"  Why,  you  don't  suppose  there's  goin'  to  be  nothin' 
said  about  all  the  thousands  o'  dollars'  wuth  of  sugar 
you've  carried  off  here,  do  "  — 

The  next  thing  Elder  Kinney  knew  he  was  strug- 
gling up  to  his  feet  in  the  middle  of  the  road  ;  he 
was  nearly  blinded  by  blood  trickling  from  a  cut  on  his 
forehead,  and  only  saw  dimly  that  Ganew  was  aiming 
another  blow  at  him  with  his  heavy-handled  ox-goad. 

But  the  Frenchman  had  reckoned  without  his  host. 
Elder  Kinney,  even  half  stunned,  was  more  than  a 
match  for  him.  In  a  very  few  minutes  Ganew  was 
lying  in  the  bottom  of  his  own  ox-cart,  with  his  handi 
securely  tied  behind  him  with  a  bit  of  his  own  rope 
and  the  Elder  was  sitting  calmly  down  on  a  big  boul 
der,  wiping  his  forehead  and  recovering  his  breath  ^ 
it  had  been  an  ugly  tussle,  and  the  Elder  was  out  ol 
practice. 

Presently  he  rose,  w^alked  up  to  the  cart,  and  lean- 
ing both  his  arms  on  the  wheel,  looked  down  on  his 
enemy. 

The  Frenchman's  murderous  little  black  eyes  rolled 
wildly,  but  he  did  not  struggle.  He  had  felt  in  the 
first  instant  that  he  was  but  an  infant  in  the  Elder's 
hands. 

"  Ye  poor,  miserable,  cowardly  French, 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  65 

— -  sinner  ye,"  said  the  Elder,  struggling  for  an 
epithet  not  unbecoming  his  cloth.  ''Did  you  think 
you  was  goin'  to  get  me  out  o'  yer  way's  easy's  that,  's 
I  dare  say  ye  have  better  folks  than  me,  before 
now  ! " 

Ganew  muttered  something  in  a  tongue  the  Elder 
did  not  understand,  but  the  sound  of  it  kindled  his 
wrath  anew. 

"  Well,  call  on  your  Master,  if  that's  what  you're 
doin',  's  much's  you  like.  He  don't  generally  look 
out  for  anybody  much  who's  so  big  a  fool's  you  must 
be,  to  think  you  was  goin'  to  leave  the  minister  o' 
this  parish  dead  in  a  ditch  within  stone's  throw  o' 
houses  and  nobody  find  you  out,"  and  the  Elder  sat 
down  again  on  the  boulder.  He  felt  very  dizzy  and 
faint  j  and  the  blood  still  trickled  steadily  from  his 
forehead.  Ganew's  face  at  this  moment  was  horrible. 
Rage  at  his  own  folly,  hate  of  the  Elder,  and  terror 
which  was  uncontrollable,  all  contended  on  his  livid 
features. 

At  last  he  spoke.  He  begged  abjectly  to  be  set 
free.  He  offered  to  leave  the  town  at  once  and 
never  return  if  the  Elder  would  only  let  him  go. 

"  What,  an'  give  up  all  your  land  ye've  got  such 
a  fine  clear  title  to .? "  said  the  Elder,  sarcastically. 
"  No  ;  we'll  give  ye  a  title  there  won't  be  no  disputin' 
about  to  a  good  berth  in  Mill  Creek  jail  for  a  spell ' " 

At  this  the  terror  mastered   every  other  emotion  in 

the  Frenchman's  face.      What  secret  reason  he  had 

'or  it  all,  no  one  could  know  but  himself;  what  in- 

quitous  schemes  already  waiting  him  in  other  places, 

what  complications  of  dangers  attendant  on  his  iden 

5 


66  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

tification  and  detention.  He  begged,  he  besought,  in 
words  so  wildly  imploring,  so  full  of  utter  uncondi- 
tional surrender,  that  there  could  be  no  question  as 
to  their  sincerity.  The  Elder  began,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, to  pity  the  wretch  ;  he  began  also  to  ask  whether 
after  all  it  would  not  be  the  part  of  policy  to  let  him 
go.  After  some  minutes  he  said,  •'  I  can't  say  I  put 
much  confidence  in  ye  yet,  Mr.  Ganew ;  but  I'm  in- 
clined to  think  it's  the  Lord's  way  o'  smoothin'  things 
for  some  o'  his  children,  to  let  you  kind  o'  slink  off," 
and  somehow  Elder  Kinney  fancied  he  heard  little 
Draxy  say,  "  Oh,  sir,  let  the  poor  man  go."  There 
was  something  marvelous  in  his  under-current  of  con- 
sciousness of  "  little  Draxy." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  picked  up  the  heavy  ox-goad, 
struck  the  near  ox  sharply  on  the  side,  and  walking 
on  a  little  ahead  of  the  team,  said  :  "  I'll  just  take  ye 
down  a  piece,  Mr.  Ganew,  till  we're  in  sight  of  Jim 
Blair's,  before  I  undo  ye.  I  reckon  the  presence  o'  a 
few  folks'll  strengthen  your  good  resolutions."  "  An' 
I  mistrust  I  ain't  quite  equal  to  another  handlin,'  " 
thought  the  Elder  to  himself,  as  he  noted  how  the 
sunny  road  seemed  to  go  up  and  down  under  his  feet 
He  was  really  far  more  hurt  than  he  knew. 

When  they  were  in  sight  of  the  house,  he  stopped 
the  oxen,  and  leaning  again  on  the  wheel,  and  look- 
v^^  down  on  Ganew,  had  one  more  talk  with  him,  at 
the  end  of  which  he  began  cautiously  to  untie  the 
rope.  He  held  the  ox-goad,  however,  firmly  grasped 
in  his  right  hand,  and  it  was  not  without  a  little 
tremor  that  he  loosed  the  last  knots.  "  Suppose  the 
desperate  critter  sh'd  have  a  knife,"  thought  the 
Elder.  • 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  6/ 

He  need  not  have  feared.  A  more  crestfallen,  sub- 
dued, wretched  being  than  Paul  Ganew,  as  he  crawled 
out  of  that  cart,  was  never  seen.  He  had  his  own 
secret  terror,  and  it  had  conquered  him.  "  It's  more'n 
me  he's  afraid  of,"  said  the  Elder  to  himself.  "  This 
is  the  Lord's  doin',  I  reckon.  Now,  Mr.  Ganew,  if 
you'll  jest  walk  to  the  heads  o'  them  oxen  I'll  thank 
ye,"  said  he  :  "  an'  's  I  feel  some  tired,  I'll  jump  into 
the  cart ;  an'  I'll  save  ye  carryin'  the  ox-goad,"  he 
added,  as  he  climbed  slowly  in^  still  holding  the  mur- 
derous weapon  in  his  hand.  Nothing  could  extinguish 
Seth  Kinney's  sense  of  humor. 

"  If  we  meet  any  folks,"  he  proceeded,  "  we've  only 
to  say  that  I've  had  a  bad  hurt,  and  that  you're  very 
kindly  takin'  me  home." 

Ganew  walked  on  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  He  was 
nearly  paralyzed  with  terror.  They  met  no  human 
being,  and  very  few  words  passed  between  them. 
When  the  cart  stopped  at  the  Elder's  door,  Ganew 
stood  still  without  turning  his  head.  The  Elder  went 
up  to  him  and  said,  with  real  kindness  of  tone, 

"  Mr.  Ganew,  I  expect  you  can't  believe  it,  but  I 
don't  bear  ye  the  least  ill-will." 

A  faint  flicker  of  something  like  grateful  surprise 
passed  over  the  hard  face,  but  no  words  came. 

"  I  hope  the  Lord  '11  bring  ye  to  himself  yet,"  per- 
sisted the  good  man,  "and  forgive  me  for  havin'  had 
anything  but  pity  for  ye  from  the  first  on't.  Ye  won't 
forget  to  send  me  a  writing  for  Bill  Sims  that  the 
rest  of  the  buckets  in  the  camp  belong  to  me  ?  " 

Ganew  nodded  sullenly  and  went  on,  and  the  Eldei 
walked  slowly  into  the  house. 


68  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

After  dark,  a  package  was  left  at  the  Elder's  door. 
It  contained  the  order  on  Bill  Sims,  and  a  letter. 
Some  of  the  information  in  the  letter  proved  useful  in 
clearing  up  the  mystery  of  Ganew's  having  known 
of  this  tract  of  land.  He  had  been  in  Potter's  em- 
ploy, it  seemed,  and  had  had  access  to  his  papers. 
What  else  the  letter  told  no  one  ever  knew  ;  but  the 
Elder's  face  always  had  a  horror-stricken  look  when 
the  Frenchman's  name  was  mentioned,  and  when 
people  sometimes  -wondered  if  he  would  ever  be 
seen  again  in  Clairvend,  the  emphasis  of  the  Elder's 
"Never!  ye  may  rely  on  that!  Never!"  had  some- 
thing solemn  in  it. 

In  less  than  forty-eight  hours  the  whole  village 
knew  the  story.  "  The  sooner  they  know  the  whole 
on't  the  better,  and  the  sooner  they'll  be  through 
talkin',"  said  the  Elder,  and  nobody  could  have  ac- 
cused him  of  being  "  close-mouthed  "  now.  He  even 
showed  "  the  little  gal's  letter,"  as  the  townspeople 
called  it,  to  anybody  who  asked  to  see  it.  It  hurt 
him  to  do  this,  more  than  he  could  see  reason  for,  but 
he  felt  a  strong  desire  to  have  the  village  heart  all 
ready  to  welcome  "  little  Draxy  "  and  her  father  when 
they  should  come.  And  the  village  heart  was  ready  ! 
Hardly  a  man,  woman,  or  child  but  knew  her  name 
and  rejoiced  in  her  good  fortune.  "  Don't  yer  re- 
member my  tellin'  yer  that  night,"  said  Josiah  Bailey 
to  Eben  Hill,  "that  she'd  come  to  the  right  place  for 
help  when  she  come  to  Elder  Kinney  ?  " 

When  Draxy  took  Elder  Kinney's  letter  out  of  the 
post-office,  her  hands  trembled.  She  walked  rapidly 
away,  and  opened  the  letter  as  soon  as  she  reached 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  69 

a  quiet  street.  The  Elder  had  not  made  it  so  clear  as 
he  thought  he  had,  in  his  letter  to  the  "  child,"  which 
way  matters  had  gone.  Draxy  feared  Presently 
she  thought,  "  He  says  '  your  father's  iand.'  That 
must  mean  that  we  shall  have  it."  But  still  she  had 
sad  misgivings.  She  almost  decided  to  read  the 
inclosed  letter  which  was  unsealed ;  she  could  not 
have  her  father  disappointed  again  j  but  her  keen 
sense  of  honor  restrained  her. 

Reuben  had  grown  really  feeble.  There  were  many 
days  now  when  he  could  not  work,  but  sat  listlessly 
on  a  ledge  of  rocks  near  the  house,  and  watched  the 
restless  waves  with  a  sense  of  misery  as  restless  as 
they.  When  Draxy  reached  home  this  night  and  found 
that  her  father  was  not  in  the  house,  she  ran  over  to 
the  "  Black  Ledge."  There  she  found  him.  She  sat 
down  by  his  side,  not  knowing  how  to  begin.  Pres- 
ently he  said  :  "  I  wish  I  loved  this  water,  daughter,  — 
it  is  very  beautiful  to  look  at ;  but  I'm  thinkin'  it's 
somethin'  like  human  beings  ;  they  may  be  ever  so 
handsome  to  look  on,  but  if  you  don't  love  'em  you 
don't,  and  that's  the  end  on't,  an'  it  don't  do  ye  no 
sort  o'  good  to  be  where  they  are." 

"  The  woods  and  fields  used  to  do  you  good,  father, 
said  Draxy. 

Reuben  was  astonished.  Draxy  was  not  wont  to 
allude  to  the  lost  and  irrecoverable  joys.  But  he  only 
sighed. 

"  Read  this  letter,  father  dear,"  said  Draxy,  hurriedly 
pushing  it  into  his  hand  ;  "  I  wrote  up  to  a  good  old 
minister  to  find  out,  and  here's  his  answer." 

Reuben  looked  bewildered.     Draxy's  words  did  not 


fO  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

make  themselves  clear.  But  the  first  words  of  Elder 
Kinney's  letter  did.     The  paper  fell  from  his  hands. 

"  Oh,  daughter !  daughter !  it  can't  be  true !  It 
can't !  "  and  Reuben  Miller  covered  his  eyes  and  cried. 
Draxy  did  not  cry.  One  of  the  finest  traits  in  her 
nature  was  her  instantaneous  calmness  of  exterior 
under  sudden  and  intense  excitement. 

"  Yes,  father,  it  is  true.  It  must  be.  I  have  be- 
lieved it  from  the  first !  Oh  do,  do  read  the  letter,'* 
said  Drax}^,  and  she  forced  the  letter  into  his  hands 
again. 

"  No,  no,  daughter.  Read  it  to  me.  I  can't  see  the 
words,"  replied  Reuben,  still  weeping.  He  was  ut- 
terly unmanned.  Then  Draxy  read  the  letter  aloud 
slowly,  distinctly,  calmly.  Her  voice  did  not  tremble. 
She  accepted  it  all,  absolutely,  unconditionally,  as  she 
had  accepted  everything  which  had  ever  happened  to 
her.  In  Draxy's  soul  the  past  never  confused  the  pres- 
ent ;  her  life  went  on  from  momeu:  to  moment,  from 
step  to  step  as  naturally,  as  clearl}^,  as  irrevocably  as 
plants  grow  and  flower,  without  hinderance,  without 
delay.  This  it  was  which  had  kept  her  serene,  strong : 
this  is  true  health  of  nature. 

After  a  time  Reuben  grew  calmer ;  Draxy*s  presence 
always  helped  him.  They  sat  on  the  rocks  until 
twilight  fell,  and  the  great  red  lamp  in  the  light-house 
fvas  lighted. 

"Father,  dear,"  said  Draxy,  "I  think  there  are 
fight-houses  all  along  our  lives,  and  God  knows  when 
it  is  time  to  light  the  lamps." 

Reuben  clasped  Draxy's  hand  tighter,  and  turned 
his  eyes  upon  her  with  a  look  whose  love  was  almost 
reverent. 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY,  Ji 

Lights  shone  unU\  morning  from  the  windows  of 
Captain  Melville's  house.  The  little  family  had  sat 
together  until  long  after  midnight,  discussing  this  new 
and  wonderful  turn  in  their  affairs.  Jane  and  Reuben 
were  bewildered  and  hardly  happy  yet ;  Draxy  was 
alert,  enthusiastic,  ready  as  usual  ;  poor  Captain  Mel- 
ville and  his  wife  were  in  sore  straits  between  their 
joy  in  the  Millers'  good  fortune,  and  their  pain  at  the 
prospect  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  f\imily.  Their  life 
together  had  been  so  beautiful,  so  harmonious. 

"  Oh,  Draxy,"  said  the  Captain,  "  how  shall  we  ever 
live  without  you  .'*  " 

"Oh  !  but  you  will  come  up  there,  uncle."  said  Draxy ; 
"and  we  shall  keep  you  after  we  once  get  you." 

Captain  Melville  shook  his  head.  He  could  never 
leave  the  sea.  But  full  well  he  knew  that  the  very  salt 
of  it  would  have  lost  its  best  savor  to  him  when  this 
sweet,  fair  girl  had  gone  out  from  his  house. 

The  "  good-nights  "  were  sadly  and  solemnly  said. 
"  Oh  !  "  thought  Draxy,  "  does  joy  always  bring  pain 
in  this  world  .''  "  and  she  fell  asleep  with  tears  on  her 
cheeks. 

Reuben  sat  up  until  near  dawn,  writing  to  Elder 
Kinney.  He  felt  strangely  strong.  He  was  half  cured 
already  by  the  upland  air  of  the  fields  he  had  never 
seen.  The  next  morning  Draxy  said,  "  Do  you  not 
think,  father,  I  ought  to  write  a  note  too,  to  thank  the 
kind  minister,  or  will   you    tell  him    how  grateful    I 


«im 


?  " 


"  Put  a  postscript  to  my  letter,  daughter.     That  will 
be  better,"  said  Reuben. 

So  Draxy  wrote  at  the  bottom  of  the  last  page  :  — 


72  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Kinney  :  —  I  do  not  know  any  words 
to  thank  3^ou  in  ;  and  I  think  you  will  like  it  better  if  I 
do  not  try.  My  father  seems  almost  well  already.  I 
am  sure  it  was  the  Lord  that  helped  you  to  find  out 
about  our  land.  I  hope  we  can  come  very  soon. 
"  Your  grateful  friend, 

"  Draxy  Miller." 

When  the  Elder  read  this  second  note  of  Draxy's, 
he  said  aloud,  "  God  bless  her !  she's  one  o'  His 
chosen  ones,  that  child  is,"  and  he  fell  to  wondering 
how  she  looked.  He  found  himself  picturing  her  as 
slight  and  fair,  with  blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  a  pale  yel- 
low. "I  don't  believe  she's  more  than  fourteen  at 
most ;  "  thought  he,  "  she  speaks  so  simple,  jest  like 
a  child  ;  an'  yet,  she  goes  right  to  the  pint,  's  straight's 
any  woman  ;  though  I  don't  know,  come  to  think 
on't,  's  ever  I  knew  a  woman  that  could  go  straight 
to  a  pint,"  reflected  the  Elder,  whose  patience  was 
often  sorely  tried  by  the  wandering  and  garrulous  fe- 
male tongues  in  his  parish.  The  picture  of  "  Little 
Draxy  "  grew  strangely  distinct  in  his  mind  ;  and  his 
heart  yearned  towards  her  with  a  yearning  akin  to  that 
which  years  before  he  had  felt  over  the  little  silent 
form  of  the  daughter  whose  eyes  had  never  looked 
into  his. 

There  was  no  trouble  with  the  town  in  regard  to 
he  land.  If  there  had  been  any  doubts.  Elder  Kin- 
ney's vigorous  championship  of  the  new  claimant 
would  have  put  them  down.  But  the  sympathy  of  the 
entire  community  was  enlisted  on  Reuben's  side.  The 
jvhole  story  from  first  to  last  appealed  to  every  man's 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  73 

heart :  and  there  was  not  a  father  in  town  that  did  not 
rest  his  hand  more  lovingly  on  his  little  girl's  head  at 
night,  when  he  sat  in  his  door-wa}'  talking  over  "  them 
Millers,"  and  telling  about  Draxy's  "  writin'  to  th' 
Elder." 

Before  the  first  of  May  all  was  settled.  Elder  Kin- 
ney had  urged  Mr.  Miller  to  come  at  once  to  his 
house,  and  make  it  a  home  until  he  could  look  about 
and  decide  where  he  would  establish  himself. 

"  I  am  a  lonely  man,"  he  wrote  ;  "  I  buried  my  wife 
and  only  child  many  years  ago,  and  have  lived  here  ever 
since,  with  only  an  old  Indian  woman  to  take  care  of 
me.  I  don't  want  to  press  you  against  your  will ;  and 
there's  a  house  in  the  village  that  you  can  hire ;  but  it 
will  go  against  me  sorely  not  to  have  you  in  my  house 
at  the  first.  I  want  to  see  you,  and  to  see  your  little 
daughter ;  I  can't  help  feeling  as  if  the  Lord  had  laid 
out  for  us  to  be  friends  more  than  common." 

Reuben  hesitated.  The  shyness  of  his  nature  made 
him  shrink  from  other  men's  houses.  But  Draxy  in- 
clined strongly  to  the  Elder's  proposition.  "  Oh,  think 
father,  how  lonely  he  must  be.  Suppose  you  hadn't 
mother  nor  me,  father  dear !  "  and  Draxy  kissed  her 
father's  cheek ;  "  and  think  how  glad  you  have  been 
that  you  came  to  live  with  uncle,"  she  added. 

Reuben  looked  lovingly  at  Captain  Melville,  but 
said  nothing. 

"  I'll  tell  ye  what  I  think,  Reuben  ;  "  said  the  Cap- 
tain. "It's  my  belief  that  you'n  that  parson'll  take 
to  each  other.  His  letters  sound  like  your  talk. 
Somehow,  I've  got  an  uncommon  respect  for  that 
man,  considerin'  he's  a  parson  :  it's  my  advice  to  ye, 
to  take  up  with  his  offer." 


74  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"And  it  seems  no  more  than  polite,  father,"  per- 
sisted Draxy  :  "  after  he  has  done  so  much  for  us. 
We  need  not  say  how  long  we  will  stay  in  his  house, 
you  know." 

"  Supposin'  you  go  up  first,  Draxy,"  said  Reuben, 
hesitatingly,  "  an'  see  how  'tis.  I  always  did  hate 
Injuns." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Draxy  ;  she  had  hardly  observed  the 
mention  of  that  feature  in  the  Elder's  household,  and 
she  laughed  outright.  Her  ideas  of  the  ancestral  sav- 
age were  too  vague  to  be  very  alarming.  "  If  she 
has  lived  all  these  years  with  this  good  old  minister, 
she  must  be  civilized  and  kind,"  said  Draxy.  "  I'm 
not  afraid  of  her." 

"  But  I  think  it  would  be  a  great  deal  better  for  me 
to  go  first,"  she  continued,  more  and  more  impressed 
with  the  new  idea.  "  Then  I  can  be  sure  beforehand 
about  everything,  and  get  things  all  in  order  for  you  ; 
and  there'll  be  Mr.  Kinney  to  take  care  of  me  ;  I  feel 
as  if  he  was  a  kind  of  father  to  everybody."  And  Draxy 
in  her  turn  began  to  wonder  about  the  Elder's  appear- 
ance as  he  had  wondered  about  hers.  Her  mental 
picture  was  quite  as  unlike  the  truth  as  was  his. 
She  fancied  him  not  unlike  her  father,  but  much  older, 
with  a  gentle  face,  and  floating  white  hair.  Dim  pur- 
poses of  how  she  might  make  his  lonely  old  age 
more  cheerful,  floated  before  her  mind.  "  It  must  be 
awful,"  thought  she,  "to  live  years  and  years  all  alone 
with  an  Indian." 

When  Elder  Kinney  read  Reuben's  letter,  saying 
ihat  they  would  send  their  daughter  up  first  to  decide 
what  would  be   best  for  them  to  do,  he   brought  hi.s 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  75 

hand  down  hard  on  the  table  and  said  "  Whew  ! " 
again. 

''Well,  I  do  declare,"  thought  he  to  himself, "  I'm 
afraid  they're  dreadful  shiftless  folks,  to  send  that  girl 
way  up  here,  all  alone  by  herself;  and  how's  such  a 
child's  that  goin'  to  decide  anything,  I  should  like  to 
know  ? " 

He  read  again  the  letter  Reuben  had  written.  "  My 
daughter  is  very  young,  but  we  lean  upon  her  as  if  she 
was  older.  She  has  helped  us  bear  all  our  misfortunes, 
and  we  have  more  confidence  in  her  opinions  than  in 
our  own  about  everything."    The  Elder  was  displeased. 

" '  Lean  on  her ; '  I  should  think  you  did  !  Poor  lit- 
tle girl !  Well,  I  can  look  out  for  her  ;  that's  one  com- 
fort." And  the  Elder  wrote  a  short  note  to  the  effect 
that  he  would  meet  their  "  child  "  at  the  railway  station, 
which  was  six  miles  from  their  town  ;  that  he  would  do 
all  he  could  to  help  her ;  and  that  he  hoped  soon  to 
see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Miller  under  his  roof. 

The  words  of  the  note  were  most  friendly,  but  there 
was  an  indefinable  difference  between  it  and  all  the 
others,  which  Draxy  felt  without  knowing  that  she  felt 
it,  and  her  last  words  to  her  father  as  she  bade  him 
good-by  from  the  car  window  were :  "  I  don't  feel  so 
sure  as  I  did  about  our  staying  with  Mr.  Kinney,  father. 
You  leave  it  all  to  me,  do  you,  dear,  even  if  I  decide 
to  buy  a  house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  daughter,"  said  Reuben,  heartily  ;  "  all ! 
Nothing  but  good's  ever  come  yet  of  your  way  o'  doin' 
things." 

"  An'  I  don't  in  the  least  hanker  after  that  Injun," 
he  called   out  as   the   cars   began  to   move.     Draxy 


J6  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

laughed  merrily.  Reuben  was  a  new  man  already. 
They  were  very  gay  together,  and  felt  wonderfully  little 
fear  for  people  to  whom  life  had  been  thus  far  so  hard. 

There  was  not  a  misgiving  in  Draxy's  heart  as  she 
set  out  again  on  a  two  da3's'  journey  to  an  unknown 
place.  "  Oh  how  different  from  the  day  when  I  started 
before,"  she  thought  as  she  looked  out  on  the  water 
sparkling  under  the  bright  May  sun.  She  spent  the 
first  night,  as  before,  at  the  house  of  Captain  Melville's 
brother,  and  set  out  at  eight  the  following  morning,  to 
ride  for  ten  hours  steadily  northward.  The  day  was 
like  a  day  of  June.  The  spring  was  opening  early ; 
already  fruit-trees  were  white  and  pink ;  banks  were 
green,  and  birds  were  noisy. 

By  noon  mountains  came  in  sight.  Draxy  was  spell- 
bound. "They  are  grander  than  the  sea,"  thought 
she,  "  and  I  never  dreamed  it ;  and  they  arc  loving, 
too.    I  should  like  to  rest  my  cheek  on  them." 

As  she  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  and  saw  some  tops 
still  white  with  snow,  her  heart  beat  faster,  and  with  a 
sudden  pang  almost  of  conscience-stricken  remorse, 
she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  I  shall  never,  never  once  miss  the 
sea  1  " 

Elder  Kinney  had  borrowed  Eben  Hill's  horse  and 
wagon  to  drive  over  for  Draxy.  He  was  at  the  sta- 
tion half  an  hour  before  the  train  was  due.  It  had 
been  years  since  the  steady  currents  of  his  life  had 
been  so  disturbed  and  hurried  as  they  were  by  this 
little  girl. 

"  Looks  like  rain.  Elder ;  I  'spect  she'll  have  to  go 
aver  with  me  arter  all,"  said  George  Thayer,  the  hand- 
Bomest,  bestnatured  stage-driver  in  the  whole  State  of 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY,  J^ 

New  Hampshire.    The  Elder  glanced  anxiously  at  the 

Bky. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,  George,"  he  replied.  "  'Twon't 
bri  anything  more'n  a  shower,  an'  I've  got  an  umbrella 
avid  a  buffiilo-robe.     I  can  keep  her  dry." 

Everybody  at  the  station  knew  Draxy's  story,  and 
knew  that  the  Elder  had  come  to  meet  her.  When  the 
train  stopped,  all  eyes  eagerly  scanned  the  passengers 
who  stepped  out  on  the  platform.  Two  men,  a  boy, 
and  three  women,  one  after  the  other ;  it  was  but  a 
moment,  and  the  train  was  off  again. 

"  She  hain't  come,"  exclaimed  voice  after  voice.  The 
Elder  said  nothing ;  he  had  stood  a  little  apart  from 
the  crowd,  watching  for  his  ideal  Draxy ;  as  soon  as 
he  saw  that  she  was  not  there,  he  had  fallen  into  a  per- 
plexed reverie  as  to  the  possible  causes  of  her  deten- 
tion. He  was  sorely  anxious  about  the  child,  "Jest's 
like's  not,  she  never  changed  cars  down  at  the  Junc- 
tion," thought  he,  "  an'  's  half  way  to  Montreal  by  this 
time,"  and  the  Elder  felt  hot  with  resentment  against 
Reuben  Miller. 

Meantime,  beautiful,  dignified,  and  unconscious, 
Draxy  stood  on  the  platform,  quietly  looking  at  face 
after  face,  seeking  for  the  white  hair  and  gentle  eyes 
of  her  trusted  friend,  the  old  minister. 

George  Thayer,  with  the  quick  instinct  of  a  stage- 
driver,  was  the  first  to  see  that  she  was  a  stranger. 

"Where  d'ye  wish  to  go,  ma'am?"  said  he,  step- 
ping towards  her. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Draxy,  "I  expected  some  one  to 
meet  me,"  and  she  looked  uneasy  ;  but  reassured  by 
llie  pleasant  face,  she  went  on:  "the  minister  from 
Clairvend  village  was  to  meet  me  here." 


78  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

George  Thayer  said,  two  hours  afterward,  in  recount- 
ing his  share  of  the  adventure,  "  I  tell  ye,  boys,  when 
she  said  that  ye  might  ha'  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather.  I  hain't  never  heard  no  other  woman's  voice 
that's  got  jest  the  sound  to't  hern  has  ;  an'  what  with 
that,  an'  thinkin'  how  beat  the  Elder  'd  be,  an'  wonder- 
in'  who  in  thunder  she  was  anyhow,  I  don't  believe  I 
opened  my  dum  lips  for  a  full  minute  ;  but  she  kind  o' 
smiled,  and  sez  she,  *  Do  you  know  Mr.  Kinney? '  and 
that  brought  me  to,  and  jest  then  the  Elder  he  come 
along,  and  so  I  introduced  'em." 

It  was  not  exactly  an  introduction,  however.  The 
Elder,  entirely  absorbed  in  conjecture  as  to  poor  little 
Draxy's  probable  whereabouts,  stumbled  on  the  plat- 
form steps  and  nearly  fell  at  her  very  feet,  and  was  re- 
called to  himself  only  to  be  plunged  into  still  greater 
confusion  by  George  Thayer's  loud  "  Hallo  !  here  he 
is.  Here's  Elder  Kinney.  Here's  a  lady  askin'  for 
you.  Elder !  " 

Even  yet  it  did  not  dawn  upon  Elder  Kinney  who 
this  could  be ;  his  little  golden-haired  girl  was  too 
vividly  stamped  on  his  brain ;  he  looked  gravely  into 
the  face  of  this  tall  and  fine-lookins:  vouno^  woman  and 
said  kindly,  "  Did  you  wish  to  see  me,  ma'am  ? " 

Draxy  smiled.  She  began  to  understand.  "  I  am 
ifraid  you  did  not  expect  to  see  me  so  tall,  sir,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  Reuben  Miller's  daughter,  —  Draxy," 
she  added,  smiling  again,  but  beginning  in  her  turn 
to  look  confused.  Could  this  erect,  vigorous  man,  with 
a  half  stern  look  on  his  dark-bearded  face,  be  the  right 
Mr.  Kinney  ?  her  minister  ?  It  was  a  moment  which 
neither  Elder  Kinney  nor  Draxy  ever  forgot.    The  un- 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY,  79 

sentimental  but  kindly  George  gave  the  best  descrip- 
tion of  it  which  could  be  given. 

"  I  vow,  boys,  I  jest  wish  ye  could  ha'  seen  our 
Elder; -an'  yet,  I  dunno's  I  do  wish  so,  nuther.  He 
stood  a  twistin'  his  hat,  jest  like  any  o'  us,  an'  he  kind 
o'  stammered,  an'  I  don't  believe  neither  on  'em  knew 
a  word  he  said ;  an'  her  cheeks  kep'  gittin'  redder'n 
redder,  an'  she  looked's  ef  she  was  ready  to  cry,  and 
yet  she  couldn't  keep  from  larfin,  no  how.  Ye  see  she 
thought  he  was  an  old  man  and  he  thought  she  was  a 
little  gal,  an'  somehow't  first  they  didn't  either  of  'em 
feel  like  nobody ;  but  when  I  passed  'em  in  the  road, 
jest  out  to  Four  Corners,  they  was  talkin'  as  easy  and 
nateral  as  could  be  ;  an'  the  Elder  he  looked  some  like 
himself,  and  she  —  wall,  boys,  you  jest  wait  till  you  see 
her  ;  that's  all  I've  got  to  say.    Ef  she  ain't  a  picter  !  " 

The  drive  to  the  village  seemed  long,  however,  to 
both  Draxy  and  the  Elder.  Their  previous  conceptions 
of  each  other  had  been  too  firmly  rooted  to  be  thus 
overthrown  without  a  great  jar.  The  Elder  felt  Draxy's 
simplicity  and  child-like  truthfulness  more  and  more 
with  each  word  she  spoke ;  but  her  quiet  dignity  of  man- 
ner was  something  to  which  he  was  unused  ;  to  his  in- 
experience she  seemed  almost  a  fine  lady,  in  spite  of  her 
sweet  and  guileless  speech.  Draxy,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  a  little  repelled  by  the  Elder's  whole  appearance. 
He  was  a  rougher  man  than  she  had  known  ;  his  pro- 
nunciation grated  on  her  ear  ;  and  he  looked  so  strong 
und  dark  she  felt  a  sort  of  fear  of  him.  But  the  next 
morning,  when  Draxy  came  down  in  her  neat  calico 
^own  and  white  apron,  the  Elder's  face  brightened. 

"  Good  morning,  my  child,"  he  said.    "You  look  as 


8o  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

fresh  as  a  pink."     The  tears  came  into  Draxy's  eyes 

at  the  word  "  child,"  said  as  her  father  said  it. 

"  I  don't  look  so  o-ld  then,  this  morning,  do  I,  sir.?" 
she  asked  in  a  pleading  tone  which  made  the  Elder 
laugh.  He  was  more  himself  this  morning.  All  was 
well.    Draxy  sat  down  to  breakfast  with  a  lighter  heart. 

When  Draxy  was  sitting  she  looked  very  young. 
Her  face  was  as  childlike  as  it  was  beautiful  :  and  her 
attitudes  were  all  singularly  unconscious  and  free.  It 
was  when  she  rose  that  her  womanhood  revealed  itsell 
to  the  perpetual  surprise  of  every  one.  As  breakfast 
went  on  the  Elder  gradually  regained  his  old  feeling 
about  her ;  his  nature  was  as  simple,  as  spontaneous 
as  hers  ;  he  called  her  "  child  "  again  several  times  in 
the  course  of  the  meal.  But  when  at  the  end  of  it 
Draxy  rose,  tall,  erect,  almost  majestic  in  her  fullness 
of  stature,  he  felt  again  singularl}'^  removed  from  her. 

"  'Ud  puzzle  any  man  to  say  whether  she's  a  child 
or  a  woman,"  said  the  Elder  to  himself  But  his  face 
shone  with  pleasure  as  he  walked  by  her  side  out  into 
the  little  front  yard.  Draxy  was  speechless  with  de- 
light. In  the  golden  east  stretched  a  long  range  of 
mountains,  purple  to  the  top ;  down  in  the  valley,  a 
mile  below  the  Elder's  house,  lay  the  village  ;  a  little 
shining  river  ran  side  by  side  with  its  main  street.  To 
the  north  were  high  hills,  some  dark  green  and  wooded, 
some  of  brown  pasture  land. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  Draxy,  "  is  there  any  other  spot  in 
jrour  mountain  land  so  beautiful  as  this?" 

''  No,  not  one,"  said  the  Elder,  "not  one;"  and  he 
too,  looked  out  silently  on  the  scene. 

Presently  Draxy  exclaimed,  with    a   sigh,    "  Oh,  i« 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  8 1 

makes  me  feel  like  crying  to  think  of  my  father's  see- 
ing this  ! " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  now  about  my  father,  sir  ? "  she 
continued  ;  "  you  ought  to  know  all  about  us,  you  have 
been  so  good." 

Then  sitting  on  the  low  step  of  the  door,  while  the 
Elder  sat  in  an  arm-chair  in  the  porch,  Draxy  told  the 
story  of  her  father's  life,  and,  unconsciously,  of  her 
own.  More  than  once  the  Elder  wiped  his  eyes  ;  more 
than  once  he  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  before  the 
door,  gazing  with  undefined  but  intense  emotion  at  this 
woman  telling  her  pathetic  story  with  the  simple-hearted 
humility  of  a  child.  Draxy  looked  younger  than  ever 
curled  up  in  the  doorway,  with  her  hands  lying  idle  on 
her  white  apron.  The  Elder  was  on  the  point  of  strok- 
ing her  hair.  Suddenly  she  rose,  and  said,  "  But  I  am 
taking  too  much  of  your  time,  sir  ;  will  you  take  me 
now  to  see  the  house  you  spoke  of,  which  we  could 
hire?"  She  was  again  the  majestic  young  woman. 
The  Elder  was  again  thrown  back,  and  puzzled. 

He  tried  to  persuade  her  to  give  up  all  idea  of  hiring 
the  house :  to  make  his  house  their  home  for  the  pres- 
ent. But  she  replied  steadfastly,  "  I  must  look  at  the 
house,  sir,  before  I  decide."  They  walked  down  into 
the  village  together.  Draxy  was  utterly  unconscious 
of  observation,  but  the  Elder  knew  only  too  well  that 
every  eye  of  Clairvend  was  at  some  window-pane  study- 
ing his  companion's  face  and  figure.  All  whom  they 
met  stared  so  undisguisedly  that,  fearing  Draxy  would 
be  annoyed,  he  said,  — 

"  You  mustn't  mind  the  folks  staring  so  at  you.    You 
lee  they've  been  talkin'  the  matter  all  over  about  the 
6 


82  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

land,  an'  your  comin',  for  a  month,  an'  it's  no  more  than 
natural  they  should  want  to  know  how  you  look  j "  and 
he,  too,  looked  admiringly  at  Draxy's  face. 

"  Oh,"  said  Draxy  (it  was  a  new  idea  to  her  mind), 
"I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  I  hope  they  are  all  glad  we  are  coming,  sir,"  added 
she,  a  moment  after. 

"  Oh  yes,  yes  ;  they're  glad  enough.  'Taint  often 
anything  happens  up  here,  you  know,  and  they've  all 
thought  everything  of  you  since  your  first  letter  came." 

Draxy  colored.  She  had  not  dreamed  of  taking  a 
whole  village  into  her  confidence.  But  she  was  glad 
of  the  friendliness  ;  and  she  met  every  inquisitive  gaze 
after  this  with  an  open,  responsive  look  of  such  beam- 
ing good-will  that  she  made  friends  of  all  whom  she 
saw.  One  or  two  stopped  and  spoke  ;  most  were  afraid 
to  do  so,  unconsciously  repelled,  as  the  Elder  had  been 
at  first,  by  something  in  Draxy's  dress  and  bearing 
which  to  their  extreme  inexperience  suggested  the  fine 
lady.  Nothing  could  have  been  plainer  than  Draxy's 
cheap  gray  gown  ;  but  her  dress  always  had  charac- 
ter :  the  tiniest  knot  of  ribbon  at  her  throat  assumed 
the  look  of  a  decoration  ;  and  many  a  lady  for  whom 
she  worked  had  envied  her  the  expression  of  her  sim- 
ple clothes. 

The  house  would  not  answer.  Draxy  shook  her  head 
as  soon  as  she  saw  it,  and  when  the  Elder  told  her 
that  in  the  spring  freshets  the  river  washed  into  the 
lower  story,  she  turned  instantly  away,  and  said,  "  Let 
us  go  home,  sir  ;  I  must  think  of  something  else." 

At  dinner  Draxy  was  preoccupied,  and  anxious.  The 
expression  of  perplexity  made  her  look  older,  but  no 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  83 

less  beautiful.  Elder  Kinney  gazed  at  her  more  steadily 
than  he  knew ;  and  he  did  not  call  her  "  child  "  again. 
After  dinner  he  took  her  over  the  house,  explaining 
to  her,  at  every  turn,  how  useless  most  of  the  rooms 
were  to  him.  In  truth,  the  house  was  admirably 
adapted  for  two  families,  with  the  exception  that  there 
was  but  one  kitchen.  "  But  that  could  be  built  on  in 
a  very  few  days,  and  would  cost  very  little,"  said  the 
Elder  eagerly.  Already  all  the  energies  of  his  strong 
nature  were  kindled  by  the  resolve  to  keep  Draxy  un- 
der his  roof. 

"I  suppose  it  might  be  so  built  that  it  could  be 
easily  moved  off  and  added  to  our  own  house  when  we 
build  for  ourselves,"  said  Draxy,  reflectively. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Elder,  "  no  sort  o'  trouble  about 
that,"  and  he  glowed  with  delight.  He  felt  sure  that 
his  cause  was  gained. 

But  he  found  Draxy  very  inflexible.  There  was  but 
one  arrangement  of  which  she  would  think  for  a  mo- 
ment. It  was,  that  the  Elder  should  let  to  them  one  half 
of  his  house,  and  that  the  two  families  should  be  en- 
tirely distinct.  Until  the  new  kitchen  and  out-buildings 
were  finished,  if  the  Elder  would  consent  to  take  them 
as  boarders,  they  v/ould  live  with  him  ;  "  otherwise,  sir, 
I  must  find  some  one  in  the  village  who  will  take  us," 
said  Draxy  in  a  quiet  tone,  which  Elder  Kinney  knew 
instinctively  was  not  to  be  argued  with.  It  was  a  novel 
experience  for  the  Elder  in  more  ways  than  one.  He 
was  used  to  having  his  parishioners,  especially  the 
women,  yield  implicitly  to  his  advice.  This  gentle- 
roiced  girl,  who  said  to  him,  "  Don't  you  think,  sir  ? " 
\n  an  appealing  tone  which  made  his  blood  quicken, 


84  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

but  who  afterward,  when  she  disagreed  with  him,  stood 
her  ground  immovably  even  against  entreaties,  was  a 
phenomenon  in  his  life.  He  began  to  stand  in  awe  of 
her.  When  some  one  said  to  him  on  the  third  day 
after  Draxy's  arrival  :  "  Well,  Elder,  I  don't  know  what 
she'd  ha'  done  without  you,"  he  replied  emphatically, 
"  Done  without  me  !  You'll  find  out  that  all  Reuben 
Miller's  daughter  wants  of  anybody  is  jest  to  let  her 
know  exactly  how  things  lay.  She  ain't  beholden  to 
anybody  for  opinions.  She's  as  trustin'  as  a  baby, 
while  you're  tellin'  her  facts,  but  I'd  like  to  see  any- 
body make  her  change  her  mind  about  what's  best  to 
be  done;  and  I  reckon  she's  generally  right;  what's 
more,  she's  one  of  the  Lord's  favorites,  an'  He  ain't 
above  guidin'  in  small  things  no  mor'n  in  great." 

No  wonder  Elder  Kinney  was  astonished.  In  forty- 
eight  hours  Draxy  had  rented  one  half  of  his  house, 
made  a  contract  with  a  carpenter  for  the  building  of  a 
kitchen  and  out-buildings  on  the  north  side  of  it,  en- 
gaged board  at  the  Elder's  table  for  her  parents  and 
herself  for  a  month,  and  hired  Bill  Sims  to  be  her  fa- 
ther's head  man  for  one  year.  All  the  while  she  seemed 
as  modestly  grateful  to  the  Elder  as  if  he  had  done  it 
all  for  her.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  she 
said  to  him  :  — 

"  Now,  sir,  what  is  the  nearest  place  for  me  to  buy 
our  furniture  ?  " 

'^  Why,  ain't  you  goin'  to  use  mine — at  least's  far's 
ft  goes  ?  "  said  the  poor  Elder.  "  I  thought  that  was 
in  the  bargain." 

Draxy  looked  disturbed.  "  Oh,  how  careless  of  me," 
phe  said  ;  "  I  am  afraid  nothing  was  said  about  it.     But 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  85 

wre  cannot  do  that ;  my  father  would  dislike  it  \  and  as 
we  must  have  furniture  for  our  new  house,  we  might  as 
well  have  it  now.  I  have  seven  hundred  dollars  with 
me,  sir ;  father  thought  I  might  decide  to  buy  a  house, 
and  have  to  pay  something  down." 

'^  Please  don't  be  angry  with  me,"  she  added  plead- 
ingly, for  the  Elder  looked  vexed.  "  You  know  if  I 
am  sure  my  father  would  prefer  a  thing,  I  must  do  it." 

The  Elder  was  disarmed. 

"  Well,  if  you  are  set  on  buyin'  furniture,"  he  said, 
"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you'd  have  a  chance  to  buy  all 
you'd  want  cheap  down  at  Squire  Williams's  sale  in 
Mill  Creek.  His  wife  died  the  night  your  first  letter 
came,  an'  I  heard  somebody  say  he  was  goin'  to  sell 
all  out ;  an'  they've  always  been  well-to-do,  the  Wil- 
liamses,  an'  I  reckon  you'd  fancy  some  o'  their  things 
better'n  anything  you'd  get  at  the  stores." 

Already  the  Elder  began  to  divine  Draxy's  tastes  ; 
to  feel  that  she  had  finer  needs  than  the  women  he  had 
known.  In  less  than  an  hour  he  was  at  the  door  with 
Eben  Hill's  horse  and  wagon  to  take  Draxy  to  Squire 
Williams's  house. 

"  Jest  more  o'  the  same  Providence  that  follows  that 
girl,"  thought  he  when  he  saw  Draxy's  eyes  fairly  dilate 
with  pleasure  as  he  led  her  into  the  old-fashioned  par- 
lor, where  the  furniture  was  piled  and  crowded  ready 
for  the  auction. 

"  Oh,  will  they  not  cost  too  much  for  me,  dear  Mr. 
Kinney  ?  "  whispered  Draxy. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  he  said,  "  there  ain't  much  bid- 
din'  at  these  sort  of  sales  up  here,"  and  he  mentally 
resolved  that  nothing  Draxy  wanted  should  cost  tod 
much  for  her. 


86  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

The  sale  was  to  be  the  next  day.  Draxy  made  a 
careful  list  of  the  things  she  would  like  to  buy.  The 
Elder  was  to  come  over  and  bid  them  off  for  her. 

"  Now  you  just  go  over  'em  again,"  said  the  Elder, 
"  and  mark  off  what  you'd  like  to  have  if  they  didn't 
cost  anything,  because  sometimes  things  go  for's  good 
's  nothing,  if  nobody  happens  to  want  'em."  So  Draxy 
made  a  second  list,  and  laughing  a  little  girlish  laugh 
as  she  handed  the  papers  to  the  Elder,  pointed  to  the 
words  "  must  haves  "  at  the  head  of  the  first  list,  and 
"  would-like-to-haves  "  at  the  head  of  the  second.  The 
Elder  put  them  both  in  his  breast-pocket,  and  he  and 
Draxy  drove  home. 

The  next  night  two  great  loads  of  Squire  Williams's 
furniture  were  carried  into  Elder  Kinney's  house.  As 
article  after  article  was  taken  in,  Draxy  clapped  her 
hands  and  almost  screamed  with  delight ;  all  her 
"would-like-to-haves"  were  there.  "Oh,  the  clock, 
the  clock  !  Have  I  really  got  that,  too  ! "  she  exclaimed, 
and  she  turned  to  the  Elder,  half  crying,  and  said, 
"  How  shall  I  ever  thank  you,  sir  "i  " 

The  Elder  was  uncomfortable.  He  was  in  a  dilemma. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  resist  buying  the  clock  for 
Draxy.  He  dared  not  tell  her  what  he  had  paid  for 
it.  "  She'd  never  let  me  give  her  a  cent's  worth,  I 
know  that  well  enough.  It  would  be  just  like  her  to 
make  me  take  it  back,"  thought  he.  Luckily  Draxy 
was  too  absorbed  in  her  new  riches,  all  the  next  day, 
to  ask  for  her  accounts,  and  by  the  next  night  the  Elder 
had  deliberately  resolved  to  make  false  returns  on  his 
papers  as  to  the  price  of  several  articles.  "  I'll  tell 
her  all  about  it  one  o'  these  days  when  she  knows  me 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  ^^'J 

better,"  he  comforted  himself  by  thinking ;  "  I  never 
did  think  Ananias  was  an  out  an'  out  liar.  It  couldn't 
be  denied  that  all  he  did  say  was  true  !  "  and  the  Elder 
resolutely  and  successfully  tried  to  banish  the  subject 
from  his  mind  by  thinking  about  Draxy. 

The  furniture  was,  much  of  it,  valuable  old  mahog- 
any, dark  in  color  and  quaint  in  shape.  Draxy  could 
hardly  contain  herself  with  delight,  as  she  saw  the  ex- 
pression it  gave  to  the  rooms ;  it  had  cost  so  little  that 
she  ventured  to  spend  a  small  sum  for  muslin  curtains, 
new  papers,  bright  chintz,  and  shelves  here  and  there. 
When  all  was  done,  she  herself  was  astonished  at  the 
result.  The  little  home  was  truly  lovely.  "  Oh,  sir, 
my  father  has  never  had  a  pretty  home  like  this  in  all 
his  life,"  said  she  to  the  Elder,  who  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  the  sitting-room  looking  with  half-pained  won- 
der at  the  transformation.  He  felt,  rather  than  saw, 
how  lovely  the  rooms  looked  ;  he  could  not  help  being 
glad  to  see  Draxy  so  glad  ;  but  he  felt  farther  removed 
from  her  by  this  power  of  hers  to  create  what  he  could 
but  dimly  comprehend.  Already  he  unconsciously 
weighed  all  things  in  new  balances ;  already  he  began 
to  have  a  strange  sense  of  humility  in  the  presence  of 
this  woman. 

Ten  days  from  the  day  that  Draxy  arrived  in  Clair- 
vend  she  drove  over  with  the  Elder  to  meet  her  father 
and  mother  at  the  station.  She  had  arranged  that  the 
Elder  should  carry  her  father  back  in  the  wagon  ;  she 
and  her  mother  would  go  in  the  stage.  She  counted 
tnuch  on  the  long,  pleasant  drive  through  the  woods 
as  an  opening  to  the  acquaintance  between  her  father 
and  the  Elder.     She  had  been  too  busy  to  write  any 


88  SAKE  HOLMES  STORIES. 

but  the  briefest  letters  home,  and  had  said  very  little 
about  him.  To  her  last  note  she  had  added  a  post- 
cript,  — 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  like  Mr.  Kinney,  father.  He 
is  very  kind  and  very  good.  But  he  is  not  old  as  we 
thought." 

To  the  Elder  she  said,  as  they  drove  over,  "  I  think 
you  will  love  my  father,  sir,  and  I  know  you  will  do 
him  good.  But  he  will  not  say  much  at  first ;  you  will 
have  to  talk,"  and  Draxy  smiled.  The  Elder  and  she 
understood  each  other  very  well. 

"  I  don't  think  there's  much  danger  o'  my  not  lovin' 
him,"  replied  the  Elder  ;  "by  all  you  tell  he  must  be 
uncommon  lovable."  Draxy  turned  on  him  such  a 
beaming  smile  that  he  could  not  help  adding,  "  an'  I 
should  think  his  bein'  your  father  was  enough." 

Draxy  looked  seriously  in  his  face,  and  said  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Kinney,  I'm  not  anything  by  the  side  of  father." 

The  Elder's  eyes  twinkled. 

It  was  a  silent  though  joyful  group  which  gathered 
around  the  Elder's  tea-table  that  night. 

Reuben  and  Jane  were  tired,  bewildered,  but  their 
eyes  rested  on  Draxy  with  perpetual  smiles.  Draxy 
also  smiled  more  than  she  spoke.  The  Elder  felt 
himself  half  out  of  place  and  wished  to  go  away,  but 
Draxy  looked  grieved  at  his  proposal  to  do  so,  and  he 
stayed.  But  nobody  could  eat,  and  old  Nancy,  who 
bad  spent  her  utmost  resources  on  the  supper,  was 
cruelly  disappointed.  She  bustled  in  and  out  on  va- 
rious pretenses,  but  at  last  could  keep  silence  no 
onger.  "  Seems  to  me  ye've  dreadful  slim  appetites 
fcr  folks   that's  been  travellin'  all   day.     Perhaps  ye 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY,  89 

don't  like  yer  victuals,"  she  said,  glancing  sharply  at 
Reuben. 

"  Oh  yes,  madame,  yes,"  said  poor  Reuben,  ner- 
vously, "  everything  is  very  nice ;  much  nicer  than  I 
am  used  to." 

Draxy  laughed  aloud.  "  My  father  never  eats  when 
he  is  tired,  Nancy.  You'll  see  how  he'll  eat  to-mor- 
row." 

After  Nancy  had  left  the  room,  Reuben  wiped  his 
forehead,  and  Draxy  laughed  again  in  spite  of  herself. 
Old  Nancy  had  been  so  kind  and  willing  in  helping 
her,  she  had  grown  fond  of  her,  and  had  quite  for- 
gotten her  father's  dread.  When  Reuben  bade  Draxy 
good-night,  he  said  under  his  breath,  "  I  like  your 
Elder  very  much,  daughter  ;  but  I  don't  know  how 
I'm  ever  goin'  to  stand  livin'  with  that  Injun." 

"  My  Elder,"  said  Draxy  to  herself  as  she  went  up- 
stairs, "  he's  everybody's  Elder  —  and  the  Lord's  most 
of  all  I  think,"  and  she  went  to  sleep  thinking  of  the 
solemn  words  which  she  had  heard  him  speak  on  the 
last  Sunday. 

It  was  strange  how  soon  the  life  of  the  new  house- 
hold adjusted  itself;  how  full  the  days  were,  and  how 
swift.  The  summer  was  close  upon  them  ;  Reuben's 
old  farmer  instincts  and  habits  revived  in  full  force. 
Bill  Sims  proved  a  most  efficient  helper  ;  he  had  been 
Draxy's  sworn  knight,  from  the  moment  of  her  first 
interview  with  him.  There  would  be  work  on  Reu- 
ben's farm  for  many  hands,  but  Reuben  was  in  no 
haste.  The  sugar  camp  assured  him  of  an  income 
tvhich  was  wealth  to  their  simple  needs  ;  and  he  wished 
to  act  advisedly  and  cautiously  in  undertaking  new 


90  SAAE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

enterprises.  All  the  land  was  wild  land — much  of  it 
deep  swamps.  The  maple  orchard  was  the  only  part 
immediately  profitable.  The  village  people  came  at 
once  to  see  them.  Everybody  was  touched  by  Jane's 
worn  face  and  gentle  ways  ;  her  silence  did  not  repel 
them ;  everybody  liked  Draxy  too,  and  admired  her, 
but  many  were  a  little  afraid  of  her.  The  village  men 
had  said  that  she  was  "  the  smartest  woman  that  had 
ever  set  foot  in  Clairvend  village,"  and  human  nature  is 
human  nature.  It  would  take  a  great  deal  of  Draxy's 
kindly  good-will  to  make  her  sister  women  forgive 
her  for  being  cleverer  than  they.  Draxy  and  Reuben 
were  inseparable.  They  drove  j  they  walked ;  even 
into  the  swamps  courageous  Draxy  penetrated  with 
her  father  and  Bill  Sims,  as  they  went  about  survey- 
ing the  land  ;  and  it  was  Draxy 's  keen  instinct  which 
in  many  cases  suggested  where  improvements  could 
be  made. 

In  the  mean  time  Elder  Kinney's  existence  had  be- 
come transformed.  He  dared  not  to  admit  himself 
how  much  it  meant,  this  new  delight  in  simply  being 
alive,  for  back  of  his  delight  lurked  a  desperate  fear ; 
he  dared  not  move.  Day  after  day  he  spent  more  and 
more  time  in  the  company  of  Draxy  and  her  father. 
Reuben  and  he  were  fast  becoming  close  friends. 
Reuben's  gentle,  trustful  nature  found  repose  in  the 
Elder's  firm,  sturdy  downrightness,  much  as  it  had  in 
Captain  Melville's  ;  and  the  Elder  would  have  loved 
Reuben  if  he  had  not  been  Draxy 's  father.  But  to 
Draxy  he  seemed  to  draw  no  nearer.  She  was  the 
same  frank,  affectionate,  merry,  puzzling  woman-child 
that  she  had  been  at  first ;  yet  as  he  saw  more  and 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY,  gj 

more  how  much  she  knew  of  books  which  he  did  not 
know,  of  people,  and  of  affairs  of  which  he  had  never 
heard  —  how  fluently,  graciously,  and  even  wisely  she 
could  talk,  he  felt  himself  cut  off  from  her.  Her 
sweet,  low  tones  and  distinct  articulation  tortured  him 
while  they  fascinated  him  ;  they  seemed  to  set  her  so 
apart.  In  fact,  each  separate  charm  she  had,  pro- 
duced in  the  poor  Elder's  humble  heart  a  mixture  of 
delight  and  pain  which  could  not  be  analyzed  and 
\)ulcl  not  long  be  borne. 

He  exaggerated  all  his  own  defects  of  manner, 
jind  speech,  and  education  ;  he  felt  uncomfortable  in 
Draxy's  presence,  in  spite  of  all  the  affectionate  rev- 
erence with  which  she  treated  him  ;  he  said  to  himself 
fifty  times  a  day,  "  It's  only  my  bein'  a  minister  that 
makes  her  think  anythin'  o'  me."  The  Elder  was  fast 
growing  wretched. 

But  Draxy  was  happy.  She  was  still  in  some  ways 
more  child  than  woman.  Her  peculiar  training  had 
left  her  imagination  singularly  free  from  fancies  con- 
cerning love  and  marriage.  The  Elder  was  a  central 
interest  in  her  life ;  she  would  have  said  instantly  and 
cordially  that  she  loved  him  dearly.  She  saw  him 
many  times  every  day ;  she  knew  all  his  outgoings  and 
incomings  ;  she  knew  the  first  step  of  his  foot  on  the 
threshold  ;  she  felt  that  he  belonged  to  them,  and  they 
to  him.  Yet  as  a  woman  thinks  of  the  man  whose 
wife  she  longs  to  be,  Draxy  had  never  once  thought 
■)f  Elder  Kinney. 

But  when  the  new  kitchen  was  finished,  and  the 
Millers  entered  on  their  separate  housekeeping,  a 
change  came.     As  Reuben   and  Jane  and  Draxy  sa/ 


92  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 


down  for  tnc  first  time  alone  together  at  their  tea- 
table,  Reuben  said  cheerily  :  — 

"  Now  this  seems  like  old  times.     This  is  nice." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Jane.  Draxy  did  not  speak.  Reu- 
ben looked  at  her.  She  colored  suddenly,  deeply, 
and  said  with  desperate  honesty,  — 

"  Yes,  father ;  but  I  can't  help  thinking  how  lonely 
Mr.  Kinney  must  be." 

"  Well,  I  declare,"  said  Reuben,  conscience-stricken  ; 
"  I  suppose  he  must  be ;  I  hate  to  think  on't.  But 
we'll  have  him  in  here's  often's  he'll  come." 

Just  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  entry  sat  the  Elder, 
leaning  both  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  looking  over 
at  the  vacant  place  where  the  night  before,  and  for 
thirty  nights  before,  Draxy  had  sat.  It  was  more  than 
he  could  bear.  He  sprang  up,  and  leaving  his  sup- 
per untasted,  walked  out  of  the  house. 

Draxy  heard  him  go.  Draxy  had  passed  in  that 
moment  into  a  new  world.     She  divined  all. 

"  He  hasn't  eaten  any  supper,"  thought  she ;  and 
she  listened  intently  to  hear  him  come  in  again.  The 
clock  struck  ten,  he  had  not  returned  !  Draxy  went 
to  bed,  but  she  could  not  sleep.  The  little  house  was 
still ;  the  \varm  white  moonlight  lay  like  summer  snow 
all  over  it ;  Draxy  looked  out  of  her  window  ;  the 
Elder  was  slowly  coming  up  the  hill  ;  Draxy  knelt 
down  like  a  little  child  and  said,  "  God  bless  him," 
and  crept  back  to  bed.  When  she  heard  him  shut  his 
bedroom  door  she  went  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  Draxy's  eyes  did  not  look  as  they  had 
looked  the  day  before.  When  Elder  Kinney  first  saw 
her,  she  was  coming  down  stairs.     He  was  standing  at 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY.  93 

the  foot  of  the  staircase  and  waited  to  say  "  Good 
morning."  As  he  looked  up  at  her,  he  started  back 
and  exclaimed  :  "  Why,  Draxy,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter,  sir,"  said  Draxy,  as  she 
stepped  from  the  last  stair^  and  standing  close  in  front 
of  him,  lifted  the  new,  sweet,  softened  eyes  up  to  his. 
Draxy  was  as  simple  and  sincere  in  this  as  in  all  other 
emotions  and  acts  of  her  life.  She  had  no  coquetry 
in  her  nature.  She  had  no  distinct  thought  either  of 
a  new  relation  between  herself  and  the  Elder.  She 
simply  felt  a  new  oneness  with  him  ;  and  she  could 
not  have  understood  the  suggestion  of  concealment. 
If  Elder  Kinney  had  been  a  man  of  the  world,  he 
would  have  folded  Draxy  to  his  heart  that  instant.  If 
he  had  been  even  a  shade  less  humble  and  self-dis- 
trustful, he  would  have  done  it,  as  it  was.  But  he 
never  dreamed  that  he  might.  He  folded  his  empty 
arms  very  tight  over  his  faithful,  aching,  foolish  heart, 
and  tried  to  say  calmly  and  naturally,  "  Are  you  sure? 
Seems  to  me  you  don't  look  quite  well." 

But  after  that  morning  he  never  felt  wholly  without 
hope.  He  could  not  tell  precisely  why.  Draxy  did 
not  seek  him,  did  not  avoid  him.  She  was  perhaps  a 
little  less  merry ;  said  fewer  words  j  but  she  looked 
glad,  and  more  than  glad.  "  I  think  it's  the  eyes,"  he 
said  to  himself  again  and  again,  as  he  tried  to  analyze 
the  new  look  on  Draxy's  face  which  gave  him  hope. 
These  were  sweet  days.  There  are  subtle  joys  for 
lovers  who  dwell  side  by  side  in  one  house,  together 
and  yet  apart.  The  very  air  is  loaded  with  signifi- 
cance to  them  —  the  door,  the  window,  the  stairway. 
Always  there  is  hope  of  meeting ;  always  there  is  corv 


94  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES, 

sciousness  of  presence  ;  everywhere  a  mysterious  sense 
that  the  loved  one  has  passed  by.  More  than  once 
Seth  Kinney  knelt  and  laid  his  cheek  on  the  stairs 
which  Draxy's  feet  had  just  ascended  !  Often  sweet, 
guileless  Draxy  thought,  as  she  went  up  and  down, 
"  Ah,  the  dear  feet  that  go  over  these  stairs."  One 
day  the  Elder,  as  he  passed  by  the  wall  of  the  room 
where  he  knew  Draxy  was  sitting,  brushed  his  great 
hand  and  arm  against  it  so  heavily  that  she  started, 
thinking  he  had  stumbled.  But  as  the  firm  step  went 
on,  without  pausing,  she  smiled,  she  hardly  knew  why. 
The  next  time  he  did  it  she  laid  down  her  work,  locked 
and  unlocked  her  hands,  and  looking  toward  the  door, 
whispered  under  her  breath,  "  Dear  hands  !  "  Finally 
this  became  almost  a  habit  of  his ;  he  did  not  at  first 
think  Draxy  would  hear  it ;  but  he  felt,  as  he  afterwards 
told  her,  "  like  a  great  affectionate  dog  going  by  her 
door,  and  that  was  all  he  could  do.  He  would  have 
liked  to  lie  down  on  the  rug." 

These  were  very  sweet  days  ;  spite  of  his  misgivings. 
Elder  Kinney  was  happy  ;  and  Draxy,  in  spite  of  her 
unconsciousness,  seemed  to  herself  to  be  living  in  a 
blissful  dream.     But  a  sweeter  day  came. 

One  Saturday  evening  Reuben  said  to  Draxy,  — 

"  Daughter,  I've  done  somethin'  I'm  afraid'll  trouble 
you.  I've  told  th'  Elder  about  your  verses,  an'  showed 
him  the  h3^mn  you  wTote  when  you  was  tryin'  to  give  it 
all  up  about  the  land." 

"  Oh,  father,  how  could  you,"  gasped  Draxy ;  and 
she  looked  as  if  she  would  cry. 

Reuben  could  not  tell  just  how  it  happened.  It 
seemed  to  have  come  out  before  he  knew  it^  and  aftei 
it  had,  he  could  not  help  showing  the  hymn. 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY,  95 

Draxy  was  very  seriously  disturbed  ;  but  she  tried 
to  conceal  it  from  her  father,  and  the  subject  was 
dropped. 

The  next  morning  Elder  Kinney  preached  —  it 
seemed  to  his  people  —  as  he  never  preached  before. 
His  subject  was  self-renunciation,  and  he  spoke  as  one 
who  saw  the  waving  palms  of  the  martyrs  and  heard 
their  shouts  of  joy.  There  were  few  dry  eyes  in  the 
little  meeting-house.  Tears  rolled  down  Draxy's  face. 
But  she  looked  up  suddenly,  on  hearing  Elder  Kinney 
say,  in  an  unsteady  voice,  — 

"  My  bretherin,  I'm  goin'  to  read  to  you  now  a 
hymn  which  comes  nigher  to  expressin'  my  idea  of  the 
kind  of  resignation  God  likes  than  any  hymn  that's 
ever  been  written  or  printed  in  any  hymn-book ;  " 
and  then  he  began  :  — 

"  I  cannot  think  but  God  must  know/'  etc. 

Draxy's  first  feeling  was  one  of  resentment ;  but  it 
was  a  very  short-lived  one.  The  earnest  tone,  the 
solemn  stillness  of  the  wondering  people,  the  peaceful 
summer  air  floating  in  at  the  open  windows, —  all 
lifted  her  out  of  herself,  and  made  her  glad  to  hear 
her  own  hymn  read  by  the  man  she  loved,  for  the  wor- 
ship of  God.  But  her  surprise  was  still  greater  when 
the  choir  began  to  sing  the  lines  to  a  quaint  old  Meth- 
odist tune.  They  had  been  provided  with  written 
copies  of  the  hymn,  and  had  practiced  it  so  faithfully 
that  they  sang  it  well.  Draxy  broke  down  and  sobbed 
for  a  few  moments,  so  that  Elder  Kinney  was  on  the 
point  of  forgetting  everything,  and  springing  to  her 
Bide.    He  had  not  supposed  that  anything  in  the  world 


96  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

could  so  overthrow  Draxy's  composure.  He  did  not 
know  how  much  less  strong  her  nerves  were  now  than 
they  had  been  two  months  before. 

After  church,  Draxy  walked  home  alone  very  rapidly. 
She  did  not  wish  to  see  any  one.  She  was  glad  that 
her  father  and  mother  had  not  been  there.  She  could 
not  understand  the  tumult  of  her  feelings. 

At  twilight,  she  stole  out  of  the  back  door  of  the 
house,  and  walked  down  to  a  little  brook  which  ran 
near  by.  As  she  stood  leaning  against  a  young  maple 
tree  she  heard  steps,  and  without  looking  up,  knew 
that  the  Elder  was  coming.  She  did  not  move  nor 
speak.  He  waited  some  minutes  in  silence.  Then  he 
said  "  Oh,  Draxy !  I  never  once  thought  o'  painin' 
you!  I  thought  you'd  like  it.  Hymns  are  made  to  be 
sung,  dear ;  and  that  one  o'  yours  is  so  beautiful  !  " 
He  spoke  as  gently  as  her  father  might,  and  in  a 
voice  she  hardly  knew.  Draxy  made  no  reply.  The 
Elder  had  never  seen  her  like  this.  Her  lips  quiv- 
ered, and  he  saw  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Draxy,  do  look  up  at  me — just  once  !  You 
don't  know  how  hard  it  is  for  a  man  to  think  he's  hurt 
anybody  —  like  you  !  "  stammered  the  poor  Elder> 
ending  his  sentence  quite  differently  from  what  he 
had  intended. 

Draxy  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  looking  up, 
said  :  "  But  I  am  not  hurt,  Mr.  Kinney  ;  I  don't  know 
what  I  am  crying  for,  sir  ;  "  and  her  eyes  fell  again. 

The  Elder  looked  down  upon  her  in  silence.  Mo- 
ments passed.  "  Oh,  if  I  could  make  her  look  up  at 
me  again !  "  he  thought.  His  unspoken  wish  stirred 
her  veins  ;  slowly  she  lifted  her  eyes  ;  they  were  calm 


DRAXY  MILLER'S  DOWRY,  97 

now,  and  unutterably  loving.     They  were  more  than 
the  Elder  could  bear." 

"  Oh,  Draxy,  Draxy  !  "  exclaimed  he,  stretching  out 
both  his  arms  towards  her. 

"  My  heart  grows  weaker  and  more  weak 
With  looking  on  the  thing  so  dear 
Which  lies  so  far,  and  yet  so  near  !  " 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  like  a  little  child  learning  to 
walk,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  but  her  mouth  smil- 
ing, Draxy  moved  towards  the  Elder.  He  did  not  stir, 
partly  because  he  could  not,  but  partly  because  he 
would  not  lose  one  instant  of  the  deliciousness  of  see- 
ing her,  feeling  her  come. 

When  they  went  back  to  the  house,  Reuben  was  sit- 
ting in  the  porch.    The  Elder  took  his  hand  and  said : 

"  Mr.  Miller,  I  meant  to  have  asked  you  first ;  but 
God  didn't  give  me  time." 

Reuben  smiled. 

"  You've's  good's  asked  me  a  good  while  back, 
Elder;  an'  I  take  it  you  haint  ever  had  much  doubt 
what  my  answer'd  be."  Then,  as  Draxy  knelt  down 
by  his  chair  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  he 
added  more  solemnly,  — 

"  But  I'd  jest  like  once  to  say  to  ye.  Elder,  that  if 
ever  I  get  to  heaven,  I  wouldn't  ask  anythin'  more  o' 
the  Lord  than  to  let  me  see  Draxy  'n'  you  a  comin'  in 
together,  an'  lookin'  as  you  looked  jest  now  when  ye 
come  in't  that  gate ! " 


g^ 

0 

^ 

THE   ELDER'S    WIFE. 

SEQUEL   TO    "DRAXY   MILLER's    DOWRY." 


PART  I. 


RAXY  and  the  Elder  were  married  in  the 
little  village  church,  on  the  first  Sunday  in 
September. 

"  O  Draxy  !  let  it  be  on  a  communion  Sunday,"  the 
Elder  had  said,  with  an  expression  on  his  face  which 
Draxy  could  not  quite  fathom  ;  "  I  can't  tell  you  what 
it  'ud  be  to  me  tu  promise  myself  over  again  to  the 
blessed  Saviour,  the  same  hour  I  promise  to  you,  dar- 
ling, I'm  so  afraid  of  loving  Him  less.  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  remember  anything  about  heaven,  after 
I've  got  you,  Draxy,"  and  tears  stood  in  the  Elder's 
eyes. 

Draxy  looked  at  him  wonderingly  and  with  a  little 
pain  in  her  face.  To  her  serene  nature,  heaven  and 
earth,  this  life  and  all  the  others  which  may  follow 
it,  had  so  long  seemed  one  —  love  and  happiness 
and  duty  had  become  so  blended  in  one  sweet  atmos- 
phere of  living  in  daily  nearness  to  God,  that  she 
could  not  comprehend  the  Elder's  words. 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  99 

"  Why,  Mr.  Kinney,  it's  all  Christ,"  she  said,  slowly 
and  hesitatingly,  slipping  her  hand  into  his,  and  look- 
ing up  at  him  so  lovingly  that  his  face  flushed,  and  he 
threw  his  arms  around  her,  and  only  felt  a  thousand 
times  more  that  heaven  had  come  to  mean  but  one 
tiling  to  him. 

"  Darling,"  he  whispered,  "  would  you  feel  so  if  I 
were  to  die  and  leave  you  alone  ?•" 

'•Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Draxy,  still  more  slowly, 
and  turning  very  pale.  "  You  never  can  really  leave 
me,  and  no  human  being  can  be  really  alone  ;  it  would 
still  be  all  Christ,  and  it  would  be  living  His  life  and 
God's  still ; "  but  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  and 
she  began  to  sob. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  Draxy,"  exclaimed  the  Elder,  wrung 
to  the  heart  by  the  sight  of  her  grief.     "  I'm  nothing 
but  a  great  brute  to  say  that  to  you  just  now ;  but, 
Draxy,  you  don't  know  much  about  a  man's  heart  yet  j 
you're  such  a  saint  yourself,  you  can't  understand  how 
it  makes  a  man  feel  as  if  this  earth  was  enough,  and 
he  didn't  want  any  heaven,  when  he  loves  a  woman  as 
I  love  you,"  and  the  Elder  threw  himself  on  the  ground 
at  Draxy's  feet,  and  laid  his  face  down  reverently  on 
the  hem   of  her  gown.     There  were  fiery  depths  in 
this  man's  nature  of  which    he  had    never  dreamed, 
until  this  fair,  sweet,  strong  womanhood  crossed  his 
path.     His  love  of  Draxy  kindled    and    transformed 
his  whole  consciousness  of  himself  and  of  life  ;  it  was 
no  wonder  that  he  felt  terrors  ;  that  he  asked  himself 
many  times  a  day  what  had  become  of  the  simple- 
minded,  earnest,  contented  worker  he  used  to  be.    He 
^ras  full  of  vague  and  restless  yearnings ;  he  longed 


100  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

to  do,  to  be,  to  become,  he  knew  not  what,  but  some- 
thing that  should  be  more  of  kin  to  this  beautiful  na- 
ture he  worshipped  —  something  that  should  give  her 
great  joy  —  something  in  which  she  could  feel  great 
pride. 

"  It  ain't  right,  I  know  it  ain't  right,  to  feel  so  about 
any  mortal,"  he  would  say  to  himself;  "  that's  the  way 
I  used  to  feel  about  Jesus.  I  wanted  to  do  all  for 
Him,  and  now  I  want  to  do  all  for  Draxy,"  and  the 
great,  tender,  perplexed  heart  was  sorely  afraid  of  its 
new  bliss. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  maple  grove  behind  the 
house.  In  the  tree  under  which  they  sat  was  a  yellow- 
hammer's  nest.  The  two  birds  had  been  fluttering 
back  and  forth  in  the  branches  for  some  time.  Sud- 
denly they  both  spread  their  wings  and  flew  swiftly 
away  in  opposite  directions.  Draxy  looked  up,  smil- 
ing through  her  tears,  and,  pointing  to  the  fast  fading 
specks  in  the  distant  air,  said,  — 

"It  would  be  like  that.  They  are  both  sent  on  er- 
rands. They  won't  see  each  other  again  till  the  er- 
rands are  done." 

The  Elder  looked  into  her  illumined  face,  and,  sigh- 
ing, said  :  "  I  can't  help  prayin'  that  the  Lord  '11  have 
errands  for  us  that  we  can  do  together  as  long's  we 
live,  Draxy." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Draxy,  "  I  pray  for  that  too,"  and 
then  they  were  silent  for  some  minutes.  Draxy  spoke 
first.  "  But  Mr.  Kinney,  I  never  heard  of  anybody's 
being  married  on  Sunday  —  did  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  Elder,  '^  I  never  did,  but  I've  always 
thought  it  was  the  only  day  a  man  ought  to  be  married 
Dn ;  I  mean  the  most  beautiful,  the  sweetest  day." 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  lOl 

"Yes,"  replied  Draxy,  a  solemn  and  tender  light 
spreading  over  her  whole  face,  "it  certainly  is.  I 
wonder  why  nobody  has  ever  thought  so  before.  But 
perhaps  many  people  have,"  she  added  with  a  merrier 
smile  ;  ''we  don't  know  everybody." 

Presently  she  looked  up  anxiously  and  said : 

"  But  do  you  think  the  people  would  like  it  ? 
Wouldn't  they  think  it  very  strange  ?  " 

The  Elder  hesitated.     He,  too,  had  thought  of  this. 

"  Well,  I  tell  you,  Draxy,  it's  just  this  way :  I've 
tried  more  than  once  to  get  some  of  them  to  come  and 
be  married  on  a  Sunday  in  church,  and  they  wouldn't, 
just  because  they  never  heard  of  it  before  ;  and  I'd 
like  to  have  them  see  that  I  was  in  true  earnest  about  it. 
And  they  like  you  so  well,  Draxy,  and  you  know  they 
do  all  love  me  a  great  deal  more'n  I  deserve,  and  I 
can't  help  believing  it  will  do  them  good  all  their  lives 
by  making  them  think  more  how  solemn  a  thing  a 
marriage  ought  to  be,  if  they  take  it  as  I  think  they 
will ;  and  I  do  think  I  know  them  well  enough  to  be 
pretty  sure." 

So  it  was  settled  that  the  marriage  should  take  place 
after  the  morning  sermon,  immediately  before  the  com- 
munion service.  When  Reuben  was  told  of  this,  his 
face  expressed  such  absolute  amazement  that  Draxy 
laughed  outright,  in  spite  of  the  deep  solemnity  of  her 
feeling  in  regard  to  it. 

"Why,  father,"  she  said,  "you  couldn't  look  more 
surprised  if  I  had  told  you  I  was  not  to  be  married  at 
all." 

"  But  Draxy,  Draxy,"  Reuben  gasped,  "  who  evef 
Heard  of  such  a  thing  ?     What  will  folks  say  ? " 


I02  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

*'  I  don't  know  that  anybody  ever  heard  of  such  a 
thing,  father  dear,"  answered  Draxy,  "  but  I  am  not 
afraid  of  what  the  people  will  say.  They  love  Mr. 
Kinney,  and  he  has  always  told  them  that  Sunday  was 
the  day  to  be  married  on.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  every 
young  man  and  3'oung  woman  in  the  parish  looked  on 
it  in  a  new  and  much  holier  light  after  this.  I  know  I 
began  to  as  soon  as  the  Elder  talked  about  it,  and  it 
wouldn't  seem  right  to  me  now  to  be  married  on  any 
other  day,"  and  Draxy  stooped  and  kissed  her  father's 
forehead  very  tenderly.  There  was  a  tenderness  in 
Draxy's  manner  now  towards  every  one  which  can 
hardly  be  described  in  words.  It  had  a  mixture  of 
humility  and  of  gracious  bestowal  in  it,  of  entreaty 
and  of  benediction,  which  were  ineffably  beautiful  and 
winning.  It  is  ever  so  when  a  woman,  who  is  as  strong 
as  she  is  sweet,  comes  into  the  fullness  of  her  woman- 
hood's estate  of  love.  Her  joy  overflows  on  all ;  cur- 
rents of  infinite  compassion  set  towards  those  who 
must  miss  that  by  which  she  is  thrilled  ;  her  incredu- 
lity of  her  own  bliss  is  forever  questioning  humbly  ; 
she  feels  herself  forever  in  presence  of  her  lover,  at 
once  rich  and  free  and  a  queen,  and  poor  and  chained 
and  a  vassal.  So  her  largess  is  perpetual,  involun- 
tary, unconscious,  and  her  appeal  is  tender,  wistful, 
beseeching.  In  Draxy's  large  nature, — her  pure, 
steadfast,  loving  soul,  quickened  and  exalted  by  the 
swift  currents  of  an  exquisitely  attuned  and  absolutely 
healthful  body,  —  this  new  life  of  love  and  passion 
wrought  a  change  which  was  vivid  and  palpable  to  the 
commonest  eyes.  Men  and  women  upon  v/hom  she 
smiled,  in  passing,  felt  themselves  lifted  and  drawn, 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  lOj 

they  knew  not  how.  A  sentiment  of  love,  which  had 
almost  reverence  in  it,  grew  up  towards  her  in  the 
hearts  of  the  people.  A  certain  touch  of  sadness,  of 
misgiving,  mingled  with  it. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  ain't  long  for  this  world  ;  she's  got 
such  a  look  o'  heaven  in  her  face,"  was  said  more  than 
once,  in  grieving  tones,  when  the  Elder's  approach- 
ing marriage  was  talked  of.  But  old  Ike  was  farther 
sighted,  in  his  simplicity,  than  the  rest.  "  'Tain't 
that,"  he  said,  "  that  woman's  got  in  her  face.  It's 
the  kind  o'  heaven  that  God  sends  down  to  stay'n  this 
world,  to  help  make  us  fit  for  the  next.  Shouldn't 
wonder  ef  she  outlived  th'  Elder  a  long  day,"  and  Ike 
wiped  his  old  eyes  slyly  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

The  day  of  the  marriage  was  one  of  those  shining 
September  days  which  only  mountain  regions  know. 
The  sky  was  cloudless  and  of  a  transcendent  blue. 
The  air  was  soft  as  the  air  of  June.  Draxy's  young 
friends  had  decorated  the  church  with  evergreens  and 
clematis  vines ;  and  on  each  side  of  the  communion- 
table were  tall  sheaves  of  purple  asters  and  golden-rod. 
Two  children  were  to  be  baptized  at  noon,  and  on  a 
little  table_,  at  the  right  of  the  pulpit,  stood  the  small 
silver  baptismal  font,  wreathed  with  white  asters  and 
the  pale  feathery  green  of  the  clematis  seed. 

When  Draxy  walked  up  the  aisle  leaning  on  her 
father's  arm,  wearing  the  same  white  dress  she  had 
worn  on  Sundays  all  summer,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
there  were  sighs  of  disappointment  in  some  of  the 
pews.  The  people  had  hoped  for  something  more. 
Draxy  had  kept  her  own  counsel  on  this  point  closely, 
replying  to  all  inquiries  as  to  what  she  would  wear 


I04  SAXE  HOLWS  STORIES. 

"White,  of  course,"  but  replying  in  such  a  tone  that 
no  one  had  quite  dared  to  ask  more,  and  there  had 
even  been  those  in  the  parish  who  "  reckoned  "  that 
she  wouldn't    "  be   satisfied   with    any  thin'   less    than 
white  satin."    Her  head  was  bare,  her  beautiful  brown 
hair  wound  tightly  round  and  round  in  the  same  mas- 
sive knot  as  usual.     Her  only  ornaments   were   the 
creamy  white  blossoms  of  the  low  cornel ;  one  cluster 
in  the  braids  of  her  hair,  and  one  on  her  bosom.    As 
she  entered  the  pew  and  sat  down  by  the  side  of  her 
mother,  slanting  sunbeams  from  the  southern  windows 
fell  upon  her  head,  lighting  up  the  bright  hair  till  it 
looked  like  a  saintly  halo.     Elder  Kinney  sat  in  the 
pulpit,  with  his  best  loved  friend,  Elder  Williams,  wht 
was  to  preach  that  day  and  perform  the  marriage  cer 
emony.    When  Draxy  and  her  father  entered  the  door, 
Elder  Kinney  rose  and  remained  standing  until  they 
reached   their   pew.      As    Draxy    sat   down    and   the 
golden  sunbeams  flickered  around  her,  the  Elder  sank 
back  into  his  seat  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 
He  did  not  change  his  posture  until  the  prayers  and 
the  hymns  and  the  sermon  were  over,  and  Elder  Wil- 
liams said  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  The  ceremony  of  marriage  will  now  be  performed." 
Then  he  rose,  his  countenance  glowing  like  that  of  one 
who  had  come  from  some  Mount  of  Transfiguration. 
With  a  dignity  and  grace  of  bearing  such  as  royal  am- 
bassadors might  envy,  he  walked  slowly  down  to  Reu- 
ben Miller's  pew,  and,  with  his  head  reverently  bent, 
received  Draxy  from  her  father's  hands. 

Passionate  love  and  close  contact  with  Draxy's  ex- 
quisite nature  were  developing,  in  this  comparatively 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  10$ 

untrained  man,  a  peculiar  courteousness  and  grace, 
which  added  a  subtle  charm  to  the  simplicity  of  his 
manners.  As  he  walked  up  the  aisle  with  Draxy  cling- 
ing to  his  arm,  his  tall  figure  looked  majestic  in  its 
strength,  but  his  face  was  still  bent  forward,  turned 
toward  her  with  a  look  of  reverence,  of  love  unspeak- 
able. 

The  whole  congregation  rose,  moved  by  one  impulse, 
and  the  silence  was  almost  too  solemn.  When  the 
short  and  simple  ceremony  was  over,  the  Elder  led 
Draxy  to  his  own  pew  and  sat  down  by  her  side. 

After  the  little  children  had  been  baptized,  the  usual 
announcement  of  the  Lord's  Supper  was  made,  and 
the  usual  invitation  given.  Absolute  silence  followed 
it,  broken  only  by  the  steps  of  the  singers  leaving 
their  seats  in  the  gallery  to  take  places  below.  Not 
a  person  moved  to  leave  the  body  of  the  house.  El- 
der Williams  glanced  at  Elder  Kinney  in  perplexity, 
and  waited  for  some  moments  longer.  The  silence 
still  remained  unbroken  j  there  was  not  a  man,  woman, 
or  child  there  but  felt  conscious  of  a  tender  and  awed 
impulse  to  remain  and  look  on  at  this  ceremony,  so 
newly  significant  and  solemn  to  their  beloved  Elder. 
Tears  came  into  many  eyes  as  he  took  the  cup  of  wine 
from  Deacon  Plummer's  trembling  hands  and  passed 
it  to  Draxy,  and  many  hearts  which  had  never  before 
longed  for  the  right  to  partake  of  the  sacred  emblems 
longed  for  it  then. 

After  the  services  were  ended,  just  as  Elder  Wil- 
liams was  about  to  pronounce  the  benediction,  Elder 
K-inney  rose  from  his  seat,  and  walking  rapidly  to  the 
communion  table  said, — 


I06  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  My  dear  friends,  I  know  you  don't  look  for  anj 
words  from  me  to-day  ;  but  there  are  some  of  you  I 
never  before  saw  at  this  blessed  feast  of  our  Lord,  and 
I  must  say  one  word  to  you  from  Him."  Then  paus- 
ing, he  looked  round  upon  them  all,  and,  with  an  un- 
utterable yearning  in  the  gesture,  stretched  out  both 
his  arms  and  said :  "  O  my  people,  my  people  !  like  as 
a  hen  gathereth  her  chickens  under  her  wing,  He  would 
have  gathered  you  long  ago,  but  ye  would  not."  Then, 
still  holding  out  his  arms  towards  them,  he  pronounced 
the  benediction. 

Silently  and  solemnly  the  little  congregation  dis- 
persed. A  few  lingered,  and  looked  longingly  at 
Draxy,  as  if  they  would  go  back  and  speak  to  her. 
But  she  stood  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  Elder's  face, 
utterly  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  any  other  hu- 
man being.  Even  her  father  dared  not  break  the 
spell  of  holy  beatitude  which  rested  on  her  counte- 
nance. 

"  No,  no,  ma,"  he  said  to  Jane,  who  proposed  that 
they  should  go  back  to  the  pew  and  walk  home  with 
her.  "  This  ain't  like  any  other  wedding  that  was  ever 
seen  on  this  earth,  unless,  maybe,  that  one  in  Cana. 
And  I  don't  believe  the  Lord  was  any  nearer  to  that 
bridegroom  than  He  is  to  this  one." 

So  Jane  and  Reuben  walked  home  from  church 
alone,  for  the  first  time  since  they  came  to  Clair\^end, 
and  Draxy  and  her  husband  followed  slowly  behind. 
The  village  people  who  watched  them  were  bewildered 
by  their  manner,  and  interpreted  it  variously  accord- 
ing to  their  own  temperaments. 

"  You'd  ha'  thought  now  they'd  been  married  years 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  IQJ 

an*  years  to  look  at  'em,"  said  Eben  Hill ;  "  they 
didn't  speak  a  word,  nor  look  at  each  other  any  more 
n  old  Deacon  Plummer  'n  his  wife,  who  was  joggin' 
along  jest  afore  'em." 

Old  Ike  —  poor,  ignorant,  loving  old  Ike,  whose  ten- 
der instinct  was  like  the  wistful  sagacity  of  a  faithful 
dog  —  read  their  faces  better.  He  had  hurried  out  of 
church  and  hid  himself  in  the  edge  of  a  little  pine 
grove  which  the  Elder  and  Draxy  must  pass. 

"  I'd  jest  like  to  see  'em  a  little  longer,"  he  said  to 
himself  half  apologetically.  As  they  walked  silently 
by,  old  Ike's  face  saddened,  and  at  last  became  con- 
vulsed with  grief.  Creeping  out  from  beneath  the 
pines,  he  slowly  followed  them  up  the  hill,  muttering 
to  himself,  in  the  fashion  which  had  grown  upon  him 
in  his  solitary  life  :  — 

"  O  Lord  !  O  Lord  !  No  such  looks  as  them  is  long 
for  this  earth.  O  Lord  !  which  is  it  ye're  goin'  to 
take?  I  reckon  it's  the  Elder.  I  reckon  'tis.  That 
woman's  goin'  to  have  her  heart  broke.  O  Lord  !  O 
Lordy  me  !  I  can't  bear  the  sight  on't ! "  and  he 
leaped  a  fence  and  struck  off  across  the  fields  towards 
his  house.  He  did  not  shut  his  eyes  that  night,  but 
tossed  and  groaned  aloud.  Towards  morning  he 
formed  a  resolution  which  calmed  him  somewhat. 

"  Ef  I  kin  only  be  right  close  to  'em  till  it  comes, 
p'raps  I  can  be  of  a  little  use.  Leastways  it  'ud  be 
some  comfort  to  try,"  he  said. 

As  the  Elder  and  Draxy  were  sitting  at  breakfast 
the  next  day,  they  caught  sight  of  the  old  man's  bent 
figure  walking  up  and  down  outside  the  gate,  and 
stopping  now  and  then  irresolutely,  as  if  he  would 
»:ome  in,  but  dared  not. 


I08  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

''Why,    there's    old    Ike,"    exclaimed    the    Elder 
"  What  on  earth  can  he  want  at  this  time  of  day  !  " 

Draxy  looked  up  with  a  very  tender  smile,  and  said  : 
•*  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  wanted  just  to  see  how 
happy  you  look,  iMr.  Kinney.  Nobody  in  this  world 
loves  you  so  well  as  old  Ike  does." 

"  Oh,  Draxy !  "  said  the  Elder,  reproachfully. 

"  No,  dear,  not  even  I.  Old  Ike  never  dreams  of 
receiving  any  love  in  return.  I  have  seen  his  eyes  fol- 
low you  with  just  such  a  look  as  dogs'  eyes  have.  I 
wish  we  could  do  something  for  him." 

"  We  will,  dear,  we  will  go  and  see  him  often.  I 
own  it  smites  me  to  the  soul  sometimes  to  think  how 
humble  he  is,  and  so  glad  to  see  me  when  I  haven't 
been  near  him  for  six  months,  maybe." 

At  this  moment  Hannah  put  her  head  into  the  door 
and  said,  in  no  pleasant  voice  :  — 

"  Here's  that  Ike  Sanborn  wantin'  to  speak  to  ye 
sir,  but  I  telled  him  "  — 

"  Let  him  come  right  in  here,  Hannah,"  said  Draxy. 
"  Mr.  Kinney  and  I  will  be  very  glad  to  see  him  this 
morning."  Hannah's  face  relaxed  in  spite  of  herself, 
in  answer  to  Draxy's  smile,  but  she  could  not  forgive 
Ike  for  what  seemed  to  her  a  most  unwarrantable  intru- 
sion, and  she  was  grimmer  than  ever  when  she  returned 
to  him,  saying,  — 

"  They'll  see  ye  ;  but  I  must  say,  I  sh'd  ha'  thought 
ye'd  know  better'n  to  be  comin'  round  here  this 
tnornin'  of  all  mornin's.  Ain't  they  to  have  a  minute's 
peace  to  theirselves  ?  " 

Ike  looked  up  appealingly  at  the  hard  Indian  face. 

"I  wa'n't  goin'  to  keep  'em  a  minute,"  he  said  ;  ''I 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  lOQ 

won't  go  in  now.  I'll  come  agin,  ef  you  say  so,  Han- 
nah." 

"No,  no  —  go  in,  now  ye're  here  ;  ye've  interrupted 
'em,  and  ye  may's  well  take  the  good  on't  now,"  re- 
plied the  vengeful  Hannah,  pushing  Ike  along  towards 
the  sitting-room  door. 

"  Ef  there's  anythin'  I  do  hate,  it's  shiftless  white 
folks,"  grumbled  Hannah  as  she  went  back  to  her 
work.  If  poor  Ike  had  known  the  angry  contempt  for 
him  which  filled  Hannah's  heart,  he  would  have  felt 
still  less  courage  for  the  proposition  he  had  come  to 
make.  As  it  was,  he  stood  in  the  doorway  the  very 
picture  of  irresolution  and  embarrassment. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  Ike,"  said  the  Elder  ;  "  you're 
the  first  one  of  the  parish  to  pay  your  respects  to  Mrs. 
Kinney."  Draxy  rose  from  her  seat  smiling,  and  went 
towards  him  and  said :  ''  And  Mrs.  Kinney  is  very 
glad  to  see  you,  Ike." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  loving  old  heart.  He 
dropped  his  hat  on  the  floor,  and  began  to  speak  so 
rapidly  and  incoherently  that  both  Draxy  and  the  El- 
der were  almost  frightened. 

"  O  Elder  !  O  Miss  Kinney !  —  I've  been  a  thinkin' 
that  p'raps  you'd  let  me  come  an'  live  with  you,  an'  do 
all  yer  chores.  I'd  bring  my  two  cows,  an'  my  keepin' 
wouldn't  be  very  much  ;  an'  —  oh,  sir,  ef  ye'U  only  let 
me,  I'll  bless  ye  all  the  days  o'  my  hfe,"  and  Ike  began 
to  cry. 

So  did  Draxy,  for  that  matter,  and  the  Elder  was 
not  very  far  from  it.     Draxy  spoke  first. 

"  Why,  Ike,  do  you  really  want  so  much  to  live  with 
us?" 


no  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES, 

Ike's  first  answer  was  a  look.     Then  he  said,  very 

simply,  — 

"  I've  laid  awake  all  night,  ma'am,  tryin'  to  get  bold 
enough  to  come  and  ask  ye." 

Draxy  looked  at  her  husband,  and  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "  You  know  what  I  told  you  just  now,  ]\Ir.  Kin- 
ney .? " 

The  Elder  saw  that  Draxy  was  on  Ike's  side. 

*^  Well,  well,  Ike,"  he  said,  "  you  shall  certainly 
come  and  try  it.  Perhaps  you  won't  like  it  as  well  as 
you  think.  But  don't  say  anything  about  it  to  any  one 
else  till  you  hear  from  us.     You  shall  come  very  soon." 

Ike  turned  to  go,  but  lingered,  and  finally  stam- 
mered :  "  I  hope,  sir,  ye  don't  take  it  that  I'm  askin'  a 
charity ;  I  make  bold  to  believe  I  could  be  worth  to 
ye's  much's  my  keepin' ;  I'm  considerable  handy  'bout 
a  good  many  things,  an'  I  can  do  a  day's  mowin'  yet 
with  any  man  in  the  parish,  I  don't  care  who  he  is. 
It's  only  because  —  because"  —  Ike's  voice  broke,  and 
it  was  ver}^  nearly  with  a  sob  that  he  added,  "  because 
I  love  ye,  sir,"  and  he  hurried  away.  Draxy  sprang 
after  him. 

'•'  I  know  that  very  well,  Ike,  and  so  does  Mr. 
Kinney,  and  you  will  be  a  great  help  to  us.  You  are 
making  us  the  most  valuable  wedding  present  we've 
had  yet,  Ike,"  and  Draxy  held  out  her  hand. 

Ike  looked  at  the  hand,  but  he  did  not  touch  it. 

"  Maybe  God'll  let  me  thank  ye  yet,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
and  was  gone. 

As  he  went  through  the  kitchen  a  sudden  misgiving 
seized  him  of  terror  of  Hannah. 

"  Supposin'  she  sh'd  take  into  her  head  to  be  agin 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  l\\ 

me,"  thought  he.  "  They  say  the  Elder  himself  s  'fraid 
on  her.  I  don't  s'pose  she'd  dare  to  try  to  pizen  me 
outright,  an'  anyhow  there's  allers  eggs  an'  potatoes. 
But  I'll  bring  her  round  fust  or  last ;  "  and,  made  wary 
by  love,  Ike  began  on  the  spot  to  conciliate  her,  by 
offering  to  bring  a  pail  of  water  from  the  well. 

This  small  attention  went  farther  than  he  could  have 
dreamed.  When  Draxy  first  told  Hannah  that  Ike  was 
to  come  and  live  with  them,  she  said  judiciously,  — 

"  It  will  make  your  work  much  easier  in  many  ways, 
Hannah." 

Hannah  answered:  — 

"  Yes,  missus.  He'll  bring  all  the  water  I  spose,  an 
that  alone's  wuth  any  man's  keep  —  not  that  I've  ever 
found  any  fault  with  the  well's  bein*  so  far  off.  It's  's 
good  water's  there  is  in  the  world,  but  it's  powerful 
heavy." 

The  arrival  of  the  two  cows  crowned  Hannah's  lik- 
ing of  the  plan.  If  she  had  a  passion  in  life  it  was 
for  cream  and  for  butter-making,  and  it  had  been  a  sore 
trial  to  her  in  her  life  as  the  Elder's  housekeeper,  that 
she  must  use  stinted  measures  of  milk,  bought  from 
neighbors.  So  when  poor  Ike  came  in,  trembling  and 
nervous,  to  his  first  night's  lodging  under  the  Elder's 
roof,  he  found  in  the  kitchen,  to  his  utter  surprise,  in- 
stead of  a  frowning  and  dangerous  enemy,  a  warm  ally, 
as  friendly  in  manner  and  mien  as  Indian  blood  would 
permit. 

Thus  the  little  household  settled  down  for  the  win- 
ter :  Draxy  and  the  Elder  happy,  serene,  exalted  more 
than  they  knew,  by  their  perfect  love  for  each  other, 
and  their  childlike  love  of  God,  blending  in  one  ear- 


112  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

nest  purpose  of  work  for  souls ;  Hannah  and  Ike  any- 
thing but  serene,  and  yet  happy  after  their  own  odd 
fashions,  and  held  together  much  more  closely  than 
they  knew  by  the  common  bond  of  their  devotion  to  the 
Elder  and  his  wife. 

In  the  other  side  of  the  house  were  also  two  very 
thankful  and  contented  hearts.  Reuben  and  Jane  were 
old  people  now  :  Reuben's  hair  was  snowy  white,  and 
Jane  was  sadly  bent ;  but  the  comfort  and  peace  which 
had  come  so  late  into  their  lives  had  still  come  early 
enough  to  make  the  sunset  a  bright  one.  It  was  a 
sight  to  do  all  hearts  good  to  see  the  two  sitting  to- 
gether on  the  piazza  of  the  house,  in  the  warm  after- 
noons, and  gazing  in  delight  at  the  eastern  mountain 
ranges  turning  rose-pink,  and  then  fading  through 
shades  of  purple  to  dark  gray. 

"  It's  a  good  deal  like  our  life,  ma,"  Reuben  said 
sometimes ;  "  our  sun's  pretty  low  —  most  down,  I 
reckon  ;  it's  all  rosy-light,  just  these  days  ;  but  we  shall 
have  to  lie  down  in  the  shadow  presently ;  but  it's  all 
beautiful,  beautiful." 

Jane  did  not  understand  him.  She  never  did.  But 
she  loved  the  sound  of  his  voice  best  when  he  said  the 
things  which  were  too  subtle  for  her. 

The  two  households  lived  separately  as  before.  The 
Elder  had  proposed  their  making  one  family,  and  Reu- 
ben had  wistfully  seconded  it.  But  Draxy  had  firmly 
said  "  No." 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  do  more  for  you,  father  dear,  if 
we  do  not.  It  will  not  seem  so  at  first,  but  I  know  I 
am  right,"  she  said,  and  it  was  a  rare  wisdom  in  her 
sweet  soul  which  led  to  the  decision.     At  first  it  was 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  II3 

very  hard  for  Reuben  to  bear,  but  as  the  months  went 
on  he  saw  that  it  was  best. 

Draxy's  loving,  thoughtful  care  of  them  never  re- 
laxed. The  excellent  woman  whom  she  had  secured 
for  their  servant  went  for  her  orders  quite  as  often  to 
Draxy  as  to  Jane ;  very  few  meals  were  set  out  for  them 
to  which  Draxy's  hand  had  not  given  the  last  final 
touch.  She  flitted  back  and  forth  between  the  two 
homes,  equally  of  both  the  guardian  angel ;  but  the 
line  of  division  and  separation  was  just  as  distinctly 
drawn  as  if  they  had  been  under  different  roofs  a  mile 
apart.  Two  or  three  times  in  the  week  they  dined  and 
took  tea  together,  but  the  habit  never  was  formed  of 
doing  this  on  a  special  day.  When  Reuben  said, 
"  Couldn't  ye  arrange  it  so's  always  to  eat  your  Sunday 
dinner  with  us,  Draxy  ? "  she  replied  : 

"  Sometimes  Sunday  dinner  ;  sometimes  Thursday  ; 
sometimes  Saturday,  father  dear.  If  we  make  it  a  fixed 
day,  we  shall  not  like  it  half  so  well,  any  of  us.  We'll 
come  often  enough,  you  may  be  sure."  And  of  this, 
too,  Reuben  soon  saw  the  wisdom. 

"  O  Draxy,  Draxy,  my  little  girl !  "  he  said  one  day, 
when,  just  after  breakfast,  she  ran  in,  exclaiming,  — 

"  Father  dear,  we're  coming  to  take  dinner  with  you 
and  ma  to-day.  It's  a  surprise  party,  and  the  chickens 
have  come  first ;  they're  in  the  kitchen  now  !  " 

"  O  Draxy,  Draxy,"  he  exclaimed,  "  it's  a  great  deal 
nicer  not  to  know  it  beforehand.  How  could  you  be 
so  wise,  child  ?  " 

Draxy  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  did  not 
speak  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said,  "  I  don't  think 
it  is  wisdom,  dear.  Real  true  love  knows  by  instinct, 
8 


114  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

jdst  as  the  bee  does,  which  shaped  cell  will  hold  most 
honey.     I'm  only  a  honey-maker  for  my  darlings." 

Jane  looked  mystified,  but  Reuben's  face  quivered 
with  pleasure. 

"  That  you  are,  you  blessed  child,"  he  said,  and  as, 
hearing  the  Elder's  step  in  the  hall,  she  flew  out  of  the 
room,  Reuben  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

Happy  years  leave  slender  records  ;  but  for  suffer- 
ing and  sin  there  would  not  be  history.  The  winter 
came,  and  the  spring  came,  and  the  summer  and  the 
autumn,  and  no  face  in  the  quiet  little  parsonage  looked 
a  shade  older  for  the  year  that  had  gone  ;  no  incident 
had  taken  place  which  could  make  a  salient  point  in  a 
story,  and  not  one  of  the  peaceful  hearts  could  believe 
that  a  twelvemonth  had  flown.  Elder  Kinney's  pa- 
thetic fears  lest  he  might  love  his  Saviour  less  by  rea- 
son of  his  new  happiness,  had  melted  like  frost  in  early 
sunlight,  in  the  sweet  presence  of  Draxy's  child-like 
religion. 

"  O  Draxy  !  "  he  said  again  and  again,  *'  seems  to  me 
I  never  half  loved  all  these  souls  we  are  working  for, 
before  I  had  you.  1  don't  see  how  I  could  have  been 
so  afraid  about  it  before  we  were  married." 

"Do  I  really  help  you,  Mr.  Kinney  ?"  Draxy  would 
reply,  with  a  lingering  emphasis  on  the  "  really,"  which 
made  her  husband  draw  her  closer  to  him  and  forget 
to  speak  :  "  It  seems  very  strange  to  me  that  I  can.  I 
Osel  so  ignorant  about  souls.  It  frightens  me  to  answer 
the  smallest  question  the  people  ask  me.  I  never  do, 
in  any  way  except  to  tell  them  if  I  iiave  ever  felt  so 
myself,  and  how  God  seemed  to  help  me  out." 

Blessed  Draxy  !  that  was  the  secret  of  her  influence 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  1 15 

from  first  to  last :  the  magnetic  sympathy  of  a  pure  and 
upright  soul,  to  whose  rare  strength  had  been  added 
stilU-arer  simplicity  and  lovingness.     Old  and  young, 
men  as  well  as  women,  came  to  her  with  unhesitatmg 
confidence.     Before  her  marriage,  they  had  all  felt  a 
little  reserve  with  her,  partly  because  she  was  of  finer 
grain  than  they,  partly  because  she  had,  deep  down  in 
her  soul,  a  genuine  shyness  which  showed  itself  only 
in  quiet  reticence.     But  now  that  she  was  the  Elder's 
wife,  they  felt  that  she  was  in  a  measure  theirs.    There 
is  a  very  sweet  side,  as  well  as  an  inconvenient  and 
irritating  one,  to  the  old-fashioned  rural  notion  that 
the  parish  has  almost  as  much  right  to  the  minister's 
wife  as  to  the  minister.     Draxy  saw  only  the  sweet  side. 
With  all  the  loyalty  and  directness  which  had  made 
her,  as  a  little  girl,  champion  and  counselor  and  com- 
fort to  her  father,  she  now  set  her  hand  to  the  work  of 
helping  her  husband  do  good  to  the  people  whom  he 
called  his  children. 

"If  they  are  yours,  they  must  be  mine,  too,  Mr. 
Kinney,"  she  would  say,  with  a  smile  half  arch,  half 
solemn.  "  I  hope  I  shan't  undo  on  week-days  what 
you  do  on  Sundays." 

"  What  I  do  on  Sundays  is  more'n  half  your^  work 
too,  Draxy,"  the  Elder  would  make  reply  ;  and  it  was 
very  true.  Draxy's  quicker  brain  and  finer  sense,  and 
in  some  ways  superior  culture,  were  fast  moulding  the 
Elder's  habits  of  thought  and  speech  to  an  extent  of 
which  she  never  dreamed.  Reuben's  income  was  now 
far  in  advance  of  their  simple  wants,  and  newspapers, 
magazines,  and  new  books  continually  found  their 
way  to  the   parsonage.     Draxy  had  only  to  mention 


il6  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

anything  she  desired  to  see,  and  Reuben  forthwith 
ordered  it.  So  that  it  insensibly  came  to  pass  that  the 
daily  life  of  the  little  household  was  really  an  intel- 
ectual  one,  and  Elder  Kinney's  original  and  vigorous 
mind  expanded  fast  in  the  congenial  atmosphere.  Yet 
he  lost  none  of  his  old  quaintness  and  simplicity  of 
phrase,  none  of  his  fervor.  The  people  listened  to  his 
sermons  with  wondering  interest,  and  were  not  slow  to 
ascribe  some  of  the  credit  of  the  new  unction  to  Draxy. 

"  Th'  Elder  's  getting  more'n  more  like  Mis'  Kinney 
every  day  o'  his  life,"  they  said  :  "  there's  some  o'  her 
sayin's  in  every  sermon  he  writes. 

"  And  no  v^onder,"  would  be  added  by  some  more 
enthusiastic  worshipper  of  Draxy's.  "  I  guess  he's  got 
sense  enough  to  know  that  she's  got  more  real  book- 
learnin'  in  her  head  than  he  has,  twice  over.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  she  got  to  writin'  some  of  his  ser- 
mons for  him  out'n  out,  before  long." 

Dear  Draxy's  reverent  wifehood  would  have  been 
grieved  and  dismayed  if  she  had  known  that  her 
efforts  to  second  her  husband's  appeals  to  his  people 
were  sometimes  so  eloquent  as  to  make  the  Elder's 
words  forgotten.  But  she  never  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing  ;  she  was  too  simple-hearted  and  humble. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  second  winter  came  the  An- 
gel of  the  Annunciation,  bearing  a  white  lily  to  Draxy. 
Her  joy  and  gratitude  vrere  unspeakable,  and  the 
exquisite  purity  and  elevation  of  her  nature  shone 
out  transcendent  in  the  new  experience. 

"  Now  I  begin  to  feel  surer  that  God  really  trusts 
me,"  she  said,  "since  he  is  going  to  let  me  have  a 
child  of  my  own." 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  WJ 

"  O  my  dear  friends  !  "  she  exclaimed  more  than 
once  to  mothers,  "  I  never  dreamed  how  happy  you 
were.     I  thought  I  knew,  but  I  did  not." 

Draxy's  spontaneous  and  unreserved  joy  of  mother- 
hood, while  yet  her  babe  was  unborn,  was  a  novel  and 
startling  thing  to  the  women  among  whom  she  lived. 
The  false  notions  on  this  point,  grown  out  of  ignorant 
and  base  thoughts,  are  too  wide-spread,  too  firm- 
rooted,  to  be  overthrown  in  an  hour  or  a  day,  even 
by  the  presence  of  angelic  truth  incarnate.  Some  of 
Draxy's  best  friends  were  annoyed  and  disquieted  by 
her  frankness  and  unreserve  of  delight.  But  as  the 
weeks  went  on,  the  true  instinct  of  complete  mother- 
hood thrilled  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  mother's 
heart,  under  Draxy's  glowing  words,  and  women 
talked  tearfully  one  with  another,  in  secret,  with 
lowered  voices,  about  the  new  revelation  which  had 
come  to  them  through  her. 

*'  I've  come  to  see  it  all  quite  different,  since  I've 
talked  with  Mis'  Kinney,"  said  one  young  married 
woman,  holding  her  baby  close  to  her  breast,  and 
looking  down  with  remorseful  tenderness  on  its  placid 
little  face.  "  I  shan't  never  feel  that  I've  quite  made 
it  up  to  Benjy,  never,  for  the  thoughts  I  had  about 
him  before  he  was  born.  I  don't  see  why  nobody  ever 
told  us  before,  that  we  was  just  as  much  mothers  to 
'em  from  the  very  first  as  we  ever  could  be,"  and  tears 
dropped  on  Benjy's  face  ;  "  an'  I  jest  hope  the  Lord  '11 
send  me's  many  more's  we  can  manage  to  feed'n 
clothe,  'n  I'll  see  if  lovin'  'em  right  along  from  the 
beginnin',  with  all  my  heart,  '11  make  'em  beautiful 
an'  happy  an'  strong  an'  well,  's  Mis'  Kinney  sez.     I 


Il8  SAKE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

b'lieve  it's  much's  ef  'twas  in  the  Bible,  after  all  she 
told  me,  and  read  me  out  of  a  Physiology,  an'  it  stands 
to  natur',  which's  more'n  the  old  way  o'  talkin   did." 

This  new,  strong  current  of  the  divinest  of  truths, 
stirred  the  very  veins  of  the  village.  Mothers  were 
more  loving  and  fathers  more  tender,  and  maidens 
were  sweeter  and  graver  —  all  for  the  coming  of  this 
one  little  babe  into  the  bosom  of  full  and  inspired 
motherhood. 

On  the  morning  when  Draxy's  son  was  born,  a 
stranger  passing  through  the  village  would  have  sup- 
posed that  some  great  news  of  war  or  of  politics  had 
arrived.  Little  knots  of  people  stood  at  gates,  on 
corners,  all  talking  earnestly ;  others  were  walking 
rapidly  to  and  fro  in  the  street.  Excitement  filled 
the  air. 

Never  was  heir  to  royal  house  more  welcomed  than 
was  the  first-born  son  of  this  simple-minded,  great- 
hearted woman,  by  the  lowly  people  among  whom  she 
dwelt. 

Old  Ike's  joy  was  more  than  he  could  manage.  He 
had  sat  on  the  floor  all  night  long,  with  his  head 
buried  in  his  hands. 

The  instinct  of  grief  to  come,  which  not  even  all 
these  long  peaceful  months  had  been  able  to  wholly 
allay  in  his  faithful  heart,  had  sprung  into  full  life  at 
the  first  symptom  of  danger  to  Draxy. 

"  P'raps  it's  this  wa}',  arter  all,  the  Lord  's  goin'  to 
do  it.  O  Lord  !  O  Lord  !  It'll  kill  Mr.  Kinney,  it'll 
kill  him,"  he  kept  repeating  over  and  over,  as  he 
rocked  to  and  fro.  Hannah  eyed  him  savagely.  Her 
Indian  blood  hated  groans  and  tears,  and  her  affec- 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  11 9 

tion  for  her  master  was  angered  at  the  very  thought  of 
his   being  afflicted. 

"  I  wish  it  had  pleased  yer  Lord  to  give  ye  the 
sense  of  a  man,  Mr.  Sanborn,"  she  said,  "while  He 
was  a  makin'  on  ye.  If  ye'd  go  to  bed,  now,  instead 
o'  snivelin'  round  here,  you  might  be  good  for  some- 
thin'  in  the  mornin',  when  there'll  be  plenty  to  do. 
Anyhow,  I'm  not  goin'  to  be  pestered  by  the  sight  on 
ye  any  longer,"'  and  Hannah  banged  the  kitchen-door 
violently  after  her. 

When  poor  Ike  timidly  peered  into  the  sitting-room, 
whither  she  had  betaken  herself,  he  found  her,  too, 
sitting  on  the  floor,  in  an  attitude  not  unlike  the  one 
she  had  so  scorned  in  him.  But  he  was  too  meek  to 
taunt  her.     He  only  said,  — 

"  I'm  goin'  now,  Hannah,  so  ye  needn't  stay  out  o' 
the  kitchen  for  me,"  and  he  climbed  slowly  up  the 
Stairs  which  led  to  his  room. 

As  the  rosy  day  dawned  in  the  east,  Draxy's  infant 
son  drew  his  first  mortal  breath.  His  first  quivering 
cry,  faint  almost  as  a  whisper,  yet  sharp  and  piteous, 
reached  old  Ike's  ears  instantly.  He  fell  on  his  knees 
and  remained  some  minutes  motionless,  then  he  rose 
and  went  slowly  down-stairs.  Hannah  met  him  at 
the  door,  her  dark  face  flushed  with  emotion  which 
she  vainly  tried  to  conceal  by  sharp  words. 

"  Hope  ye've  rested  well,  Mr.  Sanborn.  Another 
time,  mebbe  ye'll  have  more  sense.  As  fine  a  boy's 
ye  ever  see,  and  Mis'  Kinney  she's  a  smilin'  into  its 
face,  as  nobody's  never  seen  her  smile  yet,  I  tell 
you." 

Ike  was  gone,  —  out  into  the  fields,  over  fences, 


120  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

over  brooks,  into  woods,  trampling  down  dewy  ferns, 
glistening  mosses,  scarlet  cornels,  thickets  of  golden- 
rod  and  asters,  —  he  knew  not  where,  muttering  to 
himself  all  the  while,  and  tossing  his  arms  into  the 
air.  At  last  he  returned  to  the  house  saying  to 
himself,  "  P'raps  th'  Elder  '11  like  to  have  me  go 
down  into   the  village  an'  let  folks  know." 

Elder  Kinney  was  standing  bareheaded  on  the 
door-steps.  His  face  looked  like  the  face  of  a  man 
who  had  come  off  a  battle-field  where  victory  had 
been  almost  as  terrible  as  defeat.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  old  Ike  running  across  the  field  towards  him,  he 
divined  all. 

"  Loving  old  heart ! "  he  thought,  "  Draxy  was 
right,"  and  he  held  out  both  his  hands  to  the  old 
man  as  he  had  never  done  before,  and  spoke  a  few 
afiectionate  words,  which  made  tears  run  down  the 
wrinkled  cheeks.  Then  he  sent  him  on  the  errand 
he  knew  he  craved. 

'^  You'd  better  give  the  news  first  to  Eben  Hill, 
Ike,"  he  called  after  him.  "  It'll  be  of  more  use  to 
him  than  to  anybody  in  the  parish." 

It  was  just  two  years  from  Draxy's  wedding  day, 
when  she  stood  again  in  the  aisle  of  the  little  village 
church,  dressed  in  pure  white,  with  the  southern 
sunlight  resting  on  her  beautiful  hair.  Her  hus- 
band stood  by  her  side,  holding  their  infant  son  in 
his  arms.  The  child  had  clear,  calm  blue  eyes  like 
Draxy's,  and  an  expression  of  serenity  and  radiant 
joy  on  his  tiny  face,  which   made   the  people  wonder. 

"Reuben  Miller  Kinney"  was  his  name;  and 
though  the  parish   had   hoped   that  the  child  would 


THE   ELDER'S  WIFE.  121 

be  named  for  his  father,  when  they  looked  at  Reu- 
ben Miller's  sweet,  patient,  noble  face,  and  saw  its 
intense  happiness  as  the  words  were  spoken,  they 
felt  that  it  was  better  so. 

Again  swift  months  rolled  on,  and  peace  and  joy 
brooded  over  the  parsonage.  Draxy's  life  with  her 
child  was  something  too  beautiful  to  be  told  in 
words ;  her  wifehood  was  lovely,  was  intense  ;  but 
her  motherhood  was  greater.  Day  and  night  her 
love  for  her  boy  protected  and  guided  him,  like  pillar  of 
cloud,  like  pillar  of  fire.  She  knew  no  weariness,  no 
feebleness  ;  she  grew  constantly  stronger  and  more 
beautiful,  and  the  child  grew  stronger  and  more 
beautiful,  with  a  likeness  to  her  and  a  oneness  with 
her  which  were  marvelous.  He  was  a  loving  and 
affectionate  boy  to  all ;  his  father,  his  grandparents, 
old  Ike,  and  swarthy  Hannah,  —  all  alike  sunned 
themselves  in  the  delight  of  his  beautiful  childhood. 
But  wherever  he  was  —  however  amused  and  de- 
lighted—  even  in  his  father's  arms  —  his  e)'es  sought 
his  mother's  eyes,  and  the  mute  interchange  between 
them  was  subtle  and  constant  as  between  lovers. 
There  was  but  one  drawback  on  Draxy's  felicity 
now.     She  was  afraid  of  her  lore  for  her  boy. 

''  O  Seth  !  "  she  said,  —  after  little  Reuben's  birth 
she  for  the  first  time  called  her  husband  by  this 
name;  before  that,  although  she  lavished  on  him 
all  words  of  endearment,  she  had  never  found  courage 
to  call  him  Seth,  —  "  O  Seth  !  "  she  said,  "  I  feel 
now  as  you  did  about  me  before  we  were  married. 
I  can't  make  myself  think  about  anything  but  Reuby. 
O  darling !  you  don't  think  God  would  take  him  away 


122  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

from  you  to  punish  me,  do  you  ?  "  The  Elder  could 
not  comfort  her  when  she  was  in  this  frame  of  mijid  ; 
in  fact,  he  himself  was  sometimes  atraid,  seeing  her 
utter  absorption  in  the  child.  Yet  it  never  for  one 
instant  warped  her  firmness  <  i  ii;diciousness  of  con- 
trol. Draxy  could  not  have  comprehended  that  type 
of  love  which  can  lose  sight  for  one  instant  of  the 
best  good  of  the  loved  one.  Her  control,  however, 
was  the  control  of  a  wise  and  affectionate  companion, 
never  that  of  the  authoritative  parent.  Little  Reuben 
never  heard  the  words,  "  You  must  not  do  thus  and 
so."  It  was  always,  "  You  cannot,  because  it  is  not 
safe,  best,  or  proper,"  or,  "  because  if  you  do,  such 
and  such  things  will  happen." 

"  Draxy,"  said  Reuben  to  her  one  day,  "  you  never 
tell  Reuby  to  do  anything  without  giving  him  a  reason 
for  it.  He's  the  best  boy  that  ever  lived,  I  do  believe, 
but  'tain't  just  my  idea  of  obedience  for  all  that." 

Draxy  smiled.  "  I  never  said  a  word  to  him  about 
obeying  me  in  his  life  ;  I  never  shall.  I  can't  explain 
it,  father  dear,  but  you  must  let  me  do  my  way.  I 
shall  tell  him  all  I  know  about  doing  right,  and  he  will 
decide  for  himself  more  and  more.     I  am  not  afraid." 

She  need  not  have  been.  Before  Reuby  was  seven 
years  old  his  gentle  manliness  of  behavior  was  the  mar- 
vel of  the  village.  "It  beats  all  how  Mis'  Kinney's 
brought  that  boy  o'  hern  up,"  was  said  in  the  sewing- 
circle  one  day.  "  She  told  me  herself  that  she's  never 
so  much's  said  a  sharp  word  to  him  ;  and  as  for 
whippin',  she  thinks  it 's  a  deadly  sin." 

"  So  do  I,"  spoke  up  young  Mrs.  Plummer,  the 
mother  of  Benjy.       "  I    never  did   believe  in  that  j  1 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  123 

don't  believe  in  it,  even  for  bosses  ;  it  only  gets  'em  to  go 
a  few  rods,  and  then  they're  lazier'n  ever.  My  father's 
broke  more  colts  than  any  man  in  this  county,  an'  he'd 
never  let  'em  be  struck  a  blow.  He  said  one  blow 
spiled  'em,  and  I  guess  ye've  got  more  to  work  on  in 
a  boy  than  ye  have  in  a  colt." 

These  discussions  often  ran  high  and  waxed  warm. 
But  Draxy's  adherents  were  a  large  majority;  and  she 
had  so  patiently  and  fully  gone  over  these  disputed 
grounds  with  them  that  they  were  well  fortified  with  the 
arguments  and  facts  which  supported  her  positions. 
Indeed,  it  was  fast  coming  to  pass  that  she  was  the  cen- 
tral force  of  the  life  of  the  village.  "  Let  me  make 
the  songs  of  the  community,  and  I  care  not  who  makes 
its  laws,"  was  well  said.  It  was  song  which  Draxy 
supplied  to  these  people's  lives.  Not  often  in  verse, 
in  sound,  in  any  shape  that  could  be  measured,  but  in 
spirit.  She  vivified  their  every  sense  of  beauty,  moral 
and  physical.  She  opened  their  eyes  to  joy  ;  she  re- 
vealed to  them  the  sacredness  and  delight  of  common 
things  ;  she  made  their  hearts  sing. 

But  she  was  to  do  more  yet  for  these  men  and 
women.  Slowly,  noiselessly,  in  the  procession  of  these 
beautiful  and  peaceful  days,  was  drawing  near  a  day 
which  should  anoint  Draxy  with  a  new  baptism,  — 
set  her  apart  to  a  holier  work. 

It  came,  as  the  great  consecrations  of  life  are  apt  to 
come,  suddenly,  without  warning.  While  we  are  pa- 
tiently and  faithfully  keeping  sheep  in  the  wilderness, 
the  messenger  is  journeying  towards  us  with  the  vial 
of  sacred  oil,  to  make  us  kings. 

It  was  on  a  September  morning.     Draxy  sat  at  the 


124  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

eastward  bay-window  of  her  sitting-room,  reading  to 
Reuby.  Tlie  child  seemed  strangely  restless,  and 
Blipped  from  her  lap  again  and  agam,  running  to  the 
window  to  look  out.  At  last  Draxy  said,  "  What  is  it, 
Reuby  ?  Don't  you  want  to  hear  mamma  read  any 
longer  ? " 

"  Where  is  papa  ?  "  replied  Reuby.  "  I  want  to  go 
and  find  papa." 

"  Papa  has  gone  way  down  to  the  Lower  Mills,  dar- 
ling \  he  won't  come  home  till  dinner,"  said  Draxy, 
looking  perplexedly  at  Reuby's  face.  She  had  never 
known  him  to  ask  for  his  father  in  this  way  before. 
Still  his  restlessness  continued,  and  finally,  clasping 
his  mother's  hand,  he  said  earnestly,  — 

"  Come  and  find  papa." 

"  We  can't  find  him,  dear,"  she  replied ;  "  it  is 
too  far  for  Reuby  to  walk,  but  we  will  go  out  on  the 
same  road  papa  has  gone,  and  wait  for  papa  to  come  ; " 
so  saying,  she  led  the  child  out  of  the  house,  and  ram- 
bled slowly  along  the  road  on  which  the  Elder  would 
return.  In  a  few  moments  she  saw  moving  in  the  dis- 
tance a  large  black  object  she  could  not  define.  As  it 
came  nearer  she  saw  that  it  was  several  men,  walking 
slowly  and  apparently  bearing  something  heavy  be- 
tween them. 

Little  Reuby  pulled  her  hand  and  began  to  run  fas- 
ter. "  Come  and  find  papa,"  he  said  again,  in  a  tone 
which  struck  terror  to  Draxy's  heart.  At  that  instant 
the  men  halted.  She  hurried  on.  Presently  she  saw 
one  man  leave  the  rest  and  run  rapidly  towards  her. 
It  was  old  Ike.  The  rest  still  remained  motionless 
and  gathered  closer  around  what  they  were  carrying. 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  12$ 

"O  Reuby ! "  groaned  Draxy.  "Come  quicker; 
find  papa,"  he  replied,  impatiently  ;  but  old  Ike  had 
reached  them,  and  wringing  his  hands,  burst  into  tears. 
"  O  my  Lord  !  —  O  Mis'  Kinney,  yer  must  go  back ; 
they  can't  bring  him  along,  an'  you  'n'  the  boy  standin' 
here.  O  my  Lord  !  O  Mis'  Kinney,  come  right  back  ! " 
And  Ike  took  hold  of  her  shoulder  and  of  her  gown 
and  almost  turned  her  around. 

"  Is  Mr.  Kinney  hurt  ? "  said  Draxy  in  a  strange 
voice,  high  pitched  and  metallic.  "  I  shall  not  go 
back.  Tell  the  men  to  hurry.  How  dare  they  lose 
time  so  ? "  and  Draxy  tried  to  run  towards  them. 
Old  Ike  held  her  by  main  force.  Sobs  choked  his 
voice,  but  he  stammered  out :  "  O  Mis'  Kinney,  ef 
ye  love  Mr.  Kinney,  go  back.  He'd  tell  ye  so  himself. 
He  won't  know  ye  ;  the  men  won't  never  move  a  step 
till  they  see  you'n'  Reuby  goin'  first." 

Draxy  turned  instantly  and  walked  toward  the  house 
so  swiftly  that  little  Reuby  could  not  keep  up  with  her. 
He  followed  her  crying  aloud,  but  she  did  not  heed 
him.  She  flew  rather  than  ran  into  the  house,  into  the 
Elder's  study,  and  dragged  a  lounge  to  the  very 
threshold  of  the  door.  There  she  stood,  whiter  than 
any  marble,  and  as  still,  awaiting  the  slow,  toiling  steps 
of  the  overburdened  men.  Little  Reuben  stumbled 
on  the  steps  and  she  did  not  help  him.  As  he  came 
close,  clutching  her  dress  in  his  pain  and  terror,  she 
said  in  a  low  whisper,  "  Reuby,  it  will  trouble  papa 
if  he  sees  us  cr}^  Mamma  isn't  going  to  cry."  The 
child  stopped  instantly  and  stood  by  her  side,  as  calm 
as  she  for  a  moment,  then  bursting  out  again  into 
screams,   said :    "  O  mamma,    I   can't  help  crying,  I 


126  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

can't ;  bjt  I'll  run  away.  Don't  tell  papa  I  cried.** 
And  he  ran  up-stairs.  Draxy  did  not  see  which  way 
he  went.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  doorway  which 
Ike  had  that  moment  reached ;  the  men  bearing  the 
Elder's  body  were  just  behind  him. 

"  O  Mis'  Kinney  !  "  can't  yer  go  away  jest  while  we 
lay  him  down  ?  "  gasped  Ike.  "  Seem's  ef  'twouldn't 
be  so  hard." 

Draxy  looked  past  him,  as  not  hearing  a  word. 

"  Bring  him  in  here  and  lay  him  on  this  lounge,"  she 
said,  in  tones  so  clear  and  calm  they  sent  both  cour- 
age and  anguish  into  every  heart. 

Panting,  and  with  grief-stricken  faces,  the  men  stag- 
gered in  and  laid  the  tall,  majestic  figure  down.  As 
they  lifted  the  head  tenderly  and  propped  it  by  pil- 
lows, Draxy  saw  the  pale,  dead  face  with  the  sunken 
eyes  and  set  lips,  and  gave  one  low  cry.  Then  she 
clasped  both  hands  tight  over  her  heart  and  looked  up 
as  if  she  would  pierce  the  very  skies  whither  her  hus- 
band had  gone. 

"  We  sent  for  the  doctor  right  off ;  he'll  be  here's 
soon's  he  can  get  here." 

"  He  never  spoke  a  word  arter  we  lifted  him  up. 
He  couldn't  ha'  suffered  any.  Mis'  Kinney." 

"  P'raps,  Mis'  Kinney,  it'd  be  a  good  plan  to  ondo 
his  clothes  afore  the  doctor  gits  here,"  came  in  con- 
fused and  trembling  tones  from  one  after  another  of 
the  men  who  stood  almost  paralyzed  in  presence  of 
Draxy's  terrible  silence. 

"  O  Mis'  Kinney,  jest  speak  a  word,  can't  ye  ?  O 
Lord  !  O  Lord  !  she'll  die  if  she  don't.  Where's  Reu- 
by  ?     I'll  fetch  him,"  exclaimed  Ike,  and  left  the  room; 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  127 

the  men  followed  him  irresolutely,  looking  back  at 
Draxy,  who  still  stood  motionless,  gazing  down  into 
the  Elder's  face. 

"  Do  not  look  for  Reuby — he  has  hid,"  came  in  a 
slow,  measured  whisper  from  her  lips.  "And  leave 
me  alone."  "  Yes,  I  know.  You  need  not  be  afraid. 
I  understand  that  Mr.  Kinney  is  dead,"  she  added,  as 
the  men  hesitated  and  looked  bewilderedly  in  her  face. 
**  I  will  stay  alone  with  him  till  the  doctor  comes," 
and  Draxy  gently  closed  the  door  and  locked  it.  In  a 
short  time  the  little  hall  and  door-yard  were  crowded 
with  sobbing  men  and  women.  There  was  little  to  be 
told,  but  that  little  was  told  over  and  over.  The  El- 
der had  walked  down  to  the  village  store  with  old  Ike, 
and  had  just  given  him  some  parcels  to  carry  home, 
saying,  "  Tell  Mrs.  Kinne}^,"  —  when  a  runaway  horse 
had  come  dashing  furiously  down  the  street,  drawing 
a  wagon  in  which  clung,  rather  than  sat,  a  woman 
holding  a  baby  in  her  arms.  The  Eld»r  had  spryng 
into  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  caught  the  horse  by 
the  bridle  as  he  swerved  a  little  to  one  side  ;  but  the 
horse  was  too  strong  and  too  much  frightened  to  be 
held  by  any  man's  strength.  Rearing  high,  he  had 
freed  his  head,  and  plunging  forward  had  knocked  the 
Elder  down  in  such  a  way  that  both  wagon-wheels  had 
run  over  his  neck,  breakins:  it  instantly. 

"  He  never  talked  so  much  like  an  angel  from 
heaven's  he  did  this  mornin',"  sobbed  Ike,  who  looked 
already  decrepit  and  broken  from  this  sudden  blow. 
"  He  w^s  a  tellin'  me  about  suthin'  new  that's  jest 
6een  discovered  in  the  sun  ;  I  couldn't  rightly  make 
'f  out ;  but  says  he,  '  Ike,  how  glorious  'twill  be  when 


> 

N 


128  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

«ee  can  jest  fly  from  one  sun  to  another,  all  through 
this  universe  o'  God's,  an'  not  be  a  tr}-in'  in  these 
poor  little  airthly  ways  to  understand  'bout  things.' " 

That  Draxy  should  be  all  this  time  alone  with  her 
husband's  body  seemed  dreadful  to  these  sympathiz- 
ing, simple-hearted  people.  No  sound  came  from  the 
room,  though   the  windows  were   all   wide  open. 

"  O  Mr.  Miller !  don't  ye  think  some  on  us  had  bet- 
ter try  to  git  in  to  her,"  said  the  women ;  "  she  don't 
make  no  noise." 

"  No,"  replied  Reuben,  feebly.  He,  too,  was  pros- 
trated like  Ike  by  the  fearful  blow,  and  looked  years 
older  within  the  hour.  "  No  :  Draxy  knows  what's 
best  for  her.  She's  spoke  to  me  once  through  the 
door.     She  hasn't  fainted." 

"  When  the  doctor  came,  Reuben  called  to  Draxy,  — ■ 

"  Daughter,  the  doctor's  come." 

The  door  opened  instantl}'^,  but  closed  as  soon  as 
the  doctor  had  entered.  In  a  few  moments  it  opened 
again,  and  the  doctor  handed  a  slip  of  paper  to  Reu- 
ben.    He  unfolded  it  and  read  it  aloud :  — 

"  Father  dear,  please  thank  all  the  people  for  me, 
and  ask  them  to  go  home  now.  There  is  nothing  they 
can  do.  Tell  them  it  grieves  me  to  hear  them  cry, 
and  Mr.  Kinney  wouM  not  wish  it." 

Slowly  and  reluctantly  the  people  went,  and  a  si- 
lence sadder  than  the  sobs  and  grieving  voices  set- 
tled down  on  the  house.  Reuben  sat  on  the  stairs, 
his  head  leaning  against  the  studv-door.  Presently 
he  heard  a  light  step  coming  down.  It  was  young 
Mrs.  Plummer,  the  mother  of  Benjy.  She  whispered, 
*  I've  found  Reuby.     He's  asleep  on  the  garret  floor. 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  1 29 

He'd  thrown  himself  down  on  some  old  carpet,  way 
out  in  the  darkest  corner,  under  the  eaves.  I've  cov- 
ered him  up,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  sit  by  him  till  he  wakes 
up.  The  longer  he  sleeps  the  better.  You  tell  her 
where  he  is." 

Reuben  nodded ;  his  dulled  senses  hardly  heard  the 
words.  When  the  study-door  next  opened,  Draxy 
herself  came  out,  walking  with  a  slow,  measured  step 
which  transformed  her  whole  bearing.  Her  face  was 
perfectly  calm,  but  colorless  as  white  stone.  At  sight 
of  her  father  her  lips  quivered,  and  she  stretched  out 
both  hands  to  him  ;  but  she  only  said,  "  Where  is 
Reuby  ? "  And  as  soon  as  she  heard  she  went  quickly 
up  the  stairs,  adding,  ''  Do  not  follow  me,  father  dear  j 
you  cannot  help  me." 

Mrs.  Plummer  sat  in  the  dark  garret,  leaning  her 
head  against  the  dusty  rafters,  as  near  as  she  could  get 
to  poor  litde  Reuby.  Her  eyes  were  shut,  and  tears 
stood  on  her  cheeks.  Suddenly  she  was  startled  by 
Draxy's  low  voice,  saying,  — 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Mrs.  Plummer  ;  it  was  very 
kind  in  you  to  stay  here  and  not  wake  him  up.  I  will 
sit  by  him  now." 

Mrs.  Plummer  poured  forth  incoherent  words  of  sym- 
pathy and  sorrow,  but  Draxy  hardly  seemed  to  hear 
her.  She  stood  quietly,  making  no  reply,  waiting  for 
her  to  go. 

"O  Mis'  Kinney,  Mis'  Kinney,  do  cry  a  little,  can't 
yre?"  exclaimed  the  warm-hearted  woman  ;  "it  scares 
js  to  death  to  see  ye  this  way." 

Draxy  smiled.    "  No,  my  dear  friend.     I  cannot  cry 
now.     I  suppose  I  shall  sometimes,  because  I  am  very 
9 


130  SAX^i:  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

selfish,  and  I  shall  be  so  lonely;  but  just  now  I  am 
only  thinking  how  happy  he  is  in  these  first  hours  in 
heaven,"  The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  but  her  look  was 
as  of  one  who  gazed  rapturously  inside  the  pearly  gates. 
Mrs.  Plummer  stole  softly  away,  overawed  and  afraid. 
As  she  went  out  of  the  house,  she  said  to  Reuben : 
"  Mis'  Kinney  ain't  no  mortal  woman.  She  hain't  shed 
a  tear  yet,  and  she  jest  looks  as  glorified  as  the  El- 
der can  this  minute  in  sight  o'  God's  very  throne  itself. 
O  Mr.  Miller,  I'm  afraid  she'll  break  down.  This 
kind  o'  grief  is  what  kills  folks," 

"  No,"  said  Reuben,  "  you  don't  know  Draxy.  She 
won't  break  down.  She'll  take  care  on  us  all  jest  the 
same,  but  ye  won't  never  see  again  the  same  face  you 
used  to  see.  Oh,  I  can't  be  reconciled,  I  can't !  "  And 
Reuben  groaned  aloud. 

The  next  morning,  when  Draxy  came  out  of  the 
study,  her  hair  was  white  as  snow.  As  her  father  first 
caught  sight  of  her,  he  stared  wildly  for  a  moment  as 
at  some  stranger  ;  then  cr}-ing  out,  "  O  Draxy  !  O  my 
little  girl ! "  he  tottered  and  would  have  fallen  if  she 
had  not  caught  him  and  led  him  to  a  chair. 

"  O  father  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "  don't  feel  so  !  I 
wouldn't  call  him  back  this  minute  if  I  could,"  and  she 
smiled  piteously. 

"O  Draxy  —  'tain't  that,"  gasped  Reuben.  "O 
daughter !  you're  dyin'  and  never  lettin'  us  know  it. 
Your  hair's  as  white's  mine."  Draxy  gave  a  startled 
glance  at  the  mirror,  and  said,  in  a  much  more  natural 
\one  than  she  had  hitherto  spoken  in  :  "I  don't  think 
that's  strange.  It's  happened  before  to  people  in  great 
trouble.   I've  read  of  it :  you'll  get  used  to  it  very  soon, 


THE  ELDErS   WIPE.  1 31 

father  dear.  I'm  glad  of  it ;  I'll  be  all  in  white  now," 
she  added  in  a  lower  tone,  speaking  dreamily,  as  if  to 
herself,  —  "  they  walk  in  white  ;  they  walk  in  white." 

Then  Reuben  noticed  that  she  was  dressed  in  white. 
He  touched  her  gown,  and  looked  inquiringly.  "  Yes, 
father  dear,"  she  said,  "always." 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral,  when  Draxy  entered  the 
church  leading  little  Reuby  by  the  hand,  a  visible  shud- 
der ran  through  the  congregation.  The  news  had  run 
hke  wildfire  through  the  parish,  on  the  morning  after 
the  Elder's  death,  that  Mrs.  Kinney's  hair  had  all 
turned  gray  in  the  night.  But  nobody  was  in  the  least 
prepared  for  the  effect.  It  was  not  gray  —  it  was  silver- 
white  ;  and  as  it  retained  all  the  silken  gloss  which 
had  made  it  so  beautiful  the  shining  of  it  was  mar- 
velous. It  kindled  her  beauty  into  something  super- 
human. The  color  had  left  her  cheeks  also,  but  in  its 
place  was  a  clear  soft  tint  which  had  no  pallor  in  it. 
She  was  dressed  in  pure  white,  so  also  was  little  Reu- 
by j  but  for  this  the  parish  were  prepared.  Very  well 
they  knew  Draxy's  deep-rooted  belief  that  to  associate 
gloom  with  the  memory  of  the  dead  was  disloyal  alike 
to  them  and  to  Christ ;  and  so  warmly  had  she  imbued 
most  of  the  people  with  her  sentiment,  that  the  dismal 
black  garb  of  so-called  mourning  was  rarely  seen  in 
the  village. 

Bareheaded,  Draxy  and  her  little  sc^n  walked  from 
the  church  to  the  grave ;  their  faces  the  calmest, 
their  steps  the  steadiest  there.  Reuben  and  Jane 
walked  behind  them,  bent  over  and  sobbing,  and  half 
the  congregation  were  weeping  uncontrollably ;  but 
the  widowed  woman    and  the   fatherless  boy  walked 


IJ2  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

ivith  uplifted  glances,  as  if  they  saw  angel-forms    in 
the  air  by  their  side. 

"  'Tain't  nateral ;  'tain't  noways  nateral ;  thet 
woman  hain't  got  any  nateral  feelin'  in  her, "  said 
Eben  Hill,  leaning  against  a  grave-stone,  and  idly 
chewing  a  spray  of  golden-rod.  George  Thayer 
turned  upon  him  like  a  blazing  sword. 

"  Kev  ye  got  any  nateral  feelin'  yourself,  Eben 
Hill,  to  say  that,  standin'  here  an'  lookin'  at  that 
woman's  white  hair  an'  cheeks,  'n'  only  last  Sunday 
she  was  's  handsome  a  pictur's  ye  ever  see,  her  hair 
a  twinklin'  in  the  sun  like  a  brown  beech-tree,  an'  her 
cheeks  jest  like  roses  ?  Nateral  feelin's  !  It's  enough 
to  make  the  Elder  rise  up  afore  ye,  to  hear  ye  say  sech 
a  thing,  Eben  Hill ;  'n'  ef  'twan't  jest  the  funeral  that 
'tis,  I  b'leeve  I'd  thrash  ye  right  an'  left,  here'n  sight 
o'  yer  own  mother's  tombstone,  \^e  miserable,  sneakin' 
fool.  Ef  there  was  ever  a  woman  that  was  carr}'in'  a 
hull  town  straight  into  the  Lord's  heaven  on  her  own 
shoulders,  it's  Mis'  Kinney,  an'  that  blessed  boy  o' 
her'n  's  goin'  to  be  jest  like  her.  Look  at  him  now,  a 
workin'  his  poor  little  mouth  an'  lookin'  up  to  her  and 
tryin'  not  to  cry."  ■* 

Poor  little  Reuby !  when  the  first  shovelful  of  earth 
fell  on  the  coffin,  his  child's  heart  gave  way,  and  he 
broke  into  loud  crying,  which  made  the  roughest  men 
there  hide  their  eyes.  Draxy  caught  him  up  in  her 
arms  and  whispered  something  which  quieted  him 
mstantly.  Then  she  set  him  down,  and  he  stood  till 
the  end,  looking  away  from  the  grave  with  almost  a 
smile  on  his  face.  He  told  some  one,  the  next  day, 
that    he    kept  saying  over  to  himself  all    that   time ' 


THE  ELDER'S    WIFE.  133 

"  Beautiful  gates  of  precious  stones  and  angels  with 
harps."  —  "  That's  the  city,  you  know,  where  my  papa 
has  gone.  It's  not  half  so  far  off  as  we  think  ;  and 
papa  is  so  happy  there,  he  don't  even  miss  us,  though 
he  can  see  us  every  minute.  And  mamma  and  I  are 
going  there  pretty  soon  ;  next  summer  perhaps." 


PART  II. 

For  the  first  few  days  after  the  funeral,  Draxy 
seemed  to  sink  ;  the  void  was  too  terrible  ;  only  little 
Reuby's  voice  roused  her  from  the  apathetic  silence 
in  which  she  would  sit  by  the  hour  gazing  out  of  the 
east  bay-window  on  the  road  down  which  she  had 
last  seen  her  husband  walk.  She  knew  just  the  spot 
where  he  had  paused  and  turned  and  thrown  kisses 
back  to  Reuby  watching  him  from  the  window. 

But  her  nature  was  too  healthy,  too  full  of  energy^ 
and  her  soul  too  full  of  love  to  remain  in  this  frame 
long.  She  reproached  herself  bitterly  for  the  sin  of 
having  indulged  in  it  even  for  a  short  time. 

"  I  don't  believe  my  darling  can  be  quite  happy 
even  in  heaven,  while  he  sees  me  living  this  way," 
she  said  sternly  to  herself  one  morning.  Then  she 
put  on  her  bonnet,  and  went  down  i'nto  the  village 
10  carry  out  a  resolution  she  had  been  meditating 
for  some  days.  Very  great  was  the  astonishment 
of  house  after  house  that  morning,  as  Draxy  walked 
quietly  in,  as  had  been  her  wont.  She  proposed  to 
the  mothers  to  send  their  younger  children  to  her,  to 
ue  taught  half  of  every  day. 


134  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  I  can  teach  Reuby  better  if  I  have  other  children 
too,"  she  said.  "  I  think  no  child  ought  to  be  sent 
into  the  district  school  under  ten.  The  confinement 
is  too  much  for  them.  Let  me  have  all  the  boys 
and  girls  between  six  and  eight,  and  I'll  carry  them 
along  with  Reuby  for  the  next  two  or  three  years  at 
any  rate,"  she  said. 

The  parents  were  delighted  and  grateful  ;  but  their 
wonder  almost  swallowed  up  all  other  emotions. 

"To  think  o'  her!"  they  said.  "The  Elder  not 
three  weeks  buried,  an'  she  a  goin'  round,  jest  as 
calm  'n'  sweet's  a  baby,  a  gettin'  up  a  school !  " 

"  She's  too  good  for  this  earth,  that's  what  she  is," 
said  Angy  Plummer.  '^  I  should  jest  like  to  know 
if  anybody  'd  know  this  village,  since  she  came  into  't. 
Why  v/e  ain't  one  of  us  the  same  we  used  to  be.  I 
know  I  ain't.  I  reckon  myself 's  jest  about  eight 
years  old,  if  I  have  got  three  boys.  That  makes  me 
born  the  summer  before  her  Reuby,  'an  that's  jest  the 
time  I  was  born,  when  my  Benjy  was  seven  month.s 
old  ! " 

"You're  jest  crazy  about  Mis'  Kinne}^,  Angy  Plum- 
mer," said  her  mother.  "  I  b'lieve  ye'd  go  through 
fire  for  her  quicker  'n  ye  would  for  any  yer  own  flesh 
an'  blood." 

Angy  went  to  her  mother  and  kissed  the  fretful  old 
face  very  kindly.  "  Mother,  you  can't  say  I  hain't 
been  a  better  daughter  to  you  sence  I've  knowed 
Mis'  Kinney." 

"  No,  I  can't,"  grumbled  the  old  woman,  "  that's 
a  fact ;  but  she's  got  a  heap  o'  new  fangled  notions  I 
don't  believe  in." 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  1 35 

The  school  was  a  triumphant  success.     From  nine 
until   twelve   o'clock   every   forenoon,    twelve    happy 
little  children  had  a  sort  of  frolic  of  learning  lessons  in 
the   Elder's   sacred    study,  which    was   now    Draxy's 
sitting-room.     Old  Ike,  who  since  the  Elder's  death 
had  never  seemed  quite  clear  of  brain,  had  asked  so 
piteously  to  come  and   sit  in   the  room,  that    Draxy 
let  him  do  so.     He  sat  in   a  big  chair   by  the   fire- 
place,   and   carved  whistles  and   ships  and  fantastic 
toys  for  the  children,  listening  all  the  time  intently  to 
every  word  which  fell  from   Draxy's    lips.     He    had 
transferred    to    her  all  the  pathetic  love  he    had  felt 
for    the    Elder;   he  often  followed  her  at  a  distance 
when  she  went  out,  and   little  Reuby  he  rarely  lost 
sight  of,  from  morning  till  night.     He  was  too  feeble 
now  to  do  much  work,  but  his  presence  was  a  great 
comfort  to  Draxy.     He  seemed  a  very  close  link  be- 
tween her  and  her  husband.     Hannah,  too,  sometimes 
came  into  the  school  at  recess,  to  the  great  amuse- 
ment of  the  children.     She  was  particularly  fond  of 
looking    at    the  blackboard,   when   there  were  chalk- 
marks  on  it. 

"  Make  a  mark  on  me  with  your  white  pencil,"  she 
would  say,  offering  her  dark  cheek  to  Reuby,  who 
would  scrawl  hieroglyphics  all  over  it  from  hair  to 
chin. 

Then  she  would  invite  the  whole  troop  out  into  the 
kitchen  to  a  feast  of  doughnuts  or  cookies  ;  very  long 
the  recesses  sometimes  were  when  the  school  was 
watching  Hannah  fry  the  fantastic  shapes  of  sweet 
dough,  or  taking  each  a  turn  at  the  jagged  wheel  with 
<vhich  she  cut  them  out. 


136  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Reuben  also  came  often  to  the  school-room,  and 
Jane  sometimes  sat  there  with  her  knitting.  A  strange 
content  had  settled  on  their  lives,  in  spite  of  the 
sorrow.  They  saw  Draxy  calm  ;  she  smiled  on  them 
as  constantly  as  ever  ;  and  they  were  very  old  people, 
and  believed  too  easily  that  she  was  at  peace. 

But  the  Lord  had  more  work  still  for  this  sweet 
woman's  hand.  This,  too,  was  suddenly  set  before 
her.  Late  one  Saturday  afternoon,  as  she  was  return- 
ing, surrounded  by  her  escort  of  laughing  children, 
from  the  woods,  where  they  had  been  for  May-flow- 
ers, old  Deacon  Plummer  overtook  her. 

"  Mis'  Kinney,  Mis'  Kinney,"  he  began  several 
times,  but  could  get  no  further.  He  was  evidently 
in  great  perplexity  how  to  say  the  thing  he  wished. 

"  Mis'  Kinne}',  would  you  hev  — 

"  Mis'  Kinney,  me  and  Deacon  Swift  's  been  a 
sayin'  — - 

"  Mis'  Kinney,  ain't  you  got  —  " 

Draxy  smiled  outright.  She  often  smiled  now,  with 
cordial  good  cheer,  when  things  pleased  her. 

"  What  is  it,  Deacon  ?  out  with  it.  I  can't  possibly 
tell  unless  you  make  it  plainer." 

Thus  encouraged,  good  Deacon  Plummer  went  on  : 

"Well,  Mis'  Kinney,  it's  jest  this:  Elder  Williams 
has  jest  sent  w^ord  he  can't  come  an'  preach  to-morrer, 
and  there  ain't  nobody  anywhere's  round  thet  we  can 
get ;  and  De'n  Swift  'n  me,  we  was  a  thinkin'  whether 
you  wouldn't  be  willin'  some  of  us  should  read  one  o' 
the  Elder's  old  sermons.  O  Mis'  Kinney,  ye  don't 
know  how  we  all  hanker  to  hear  some  o'  his  blessed 
words  agin." 


THE  ELDER'S    WIFE.  1 37 

Draxy  stood  still.  Her  face  altered  so  that  the  lit- 
tle children  crowded  round  her  in  alarm,  and  Reuby 
took  hold  of  her  hand.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes, 
and  she  could  hardly  speak,  but  she  replied,  — 

'*Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Plummer,  I  should  be  very 
glad  to  have  you.  I'll  look  out  a  sermon  to-night, 
and  you  can  come  up  to  the  house  in  the  morning 
and  get  it." 

"  O  Mis'  Kinney,  do  forgive  me  for  speakin'.  You 
have  allers  seem  so  borne  up,  I  never  mistrusted 
that 't  'd  do  any  harm  to  ask  yer,"  stammered  the 
poor  Deacon,  utterly  disconcerted  by  Draxy's  tears, 
for  she  was  crying  hard  now. 

"  It  hasn't  done  any  harm,  I  assure  you.  I  am 
very  glad  to  do  it,"  said  Draxy. 

^'  Yes,  sir,  my  mamma  very  often  cries  when  she's 
glad,"  spoke  up  Reuby,  his  little  face  getting  very 
red,  and  his  lips  quivering.  ^' She's  very  glad,  sir,  if 
she  says  so." 

This  chivalrous  defense  calmed  poor  Draxy,  but 
did  not  comfort  the  Deacon,  who  hurried  away,  saying 
to  himself,  — 

"  Don't  believe  there  was  ever  such  a  woman  nor 
such  a  boy  in  this  world  before.  She  never  shed  a 
tear  when  we  brought  the  Elder  home  dead,  nor  even 
when  she  see  him  let  down  into  the  very  grave  ;  'n' 
I  don't  believe  she's  cried  afore  anybody  till  to-day ; 
n'  that  little  chap  a  speakin'  up  an'  tellin'  me  his  ma 
often  cried  when  she  was  glad,  an'  I  was  to  believe 
her  spite  of  her  crying !  I  wish  I'd  made  Job  Swift 
^o  arter  her.  I'll  make  him  go  arter  that  sermon 
anyhow.     I  won't  go  near  her  agin  'bout  this  bisness, 


138  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

that's  certain  j  "  and  the  remorse-stricken,  but  artful 
deacon  hastened  to  his  brother  deacon's  house  to  tell 
him  that  it  was  "  all  settled  with  Mis'  Kinney  'bout 
the  sermon,  an'  she  was  quite  willin' ; "  and,  "  O," 
he  added,  as  if  it  were  quite  a  second  thought,  "  ye'd 
better  go  up  an'  git  the  sermon,  Job,  in  the  mornin,' 
ye're  so  much  nearer,  an'  then,  's  ye've  to  do  the 
readin,'  maybe  she'll  have  somethin'  to  explain  to  ye 
about  the  way  it's  to  be  read  ;  th'  Elder's  writin'  wan't 
any  too  easy  to  make  out,  's  fur  's  I   remember  it." 

Next  morning,  just  as  the  first  bells  were  ringing, 
Deacon  Swift  knocked  timidly  at  the  door  of  the 
Elder's  study.  Draxy  met  him  with  a  radiant  face. 
She  had  been  excited  by  reading  over  the  sermon 
she  had  after  long  deliberation  selected.  The  text 
was,  — 

"  Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I  give  unto  you." 
The  sermon  had  been  written  soon  after  their  mar- 
riage, and  was  one  of  her  husband's  favorites.  There 
were  many  eloquent  passages  in  it,  which  seemed  now 
to  take  on  a  new  significance,  as  coming  from  the  lips 
of  the  Elder,  absent  from  his  flock  and  present  with 
Christ. 

"  O  Mis'  Kinne3%  I  recollect  that  sermon  's  if  *twas 
only  yesterday,"  said  Deacon  Swift.  "  The  hull  par- 
ish was  talkin'  on't  all  the  week  ;  ye  couldn't  have 
picked  out  one  they'd  be  so  glad  to  hear  ;  but  dear 
me  !  how  I'm  ever  goin'  to  read  it  in  any  kind  o'  de- 
cent way,  I  don't  know  ;  I  never  was  a  reader,  anyhow, 
'n'  now  I've  lost  my  front  teeth,  some  words  does  pes- 
ter me  to  git  out." 

This  opened  the  way  for  Draxy.     Nearly  all  night 


THE  ELDER'S    WIFE.  139 

she  had  lain  awake,  thinking  how  terrible  it  would  be 
to  her  to  hear  her  husband's  beloved  words  indis- 
tinctly and  ineffectively  read  by  Deacon  Swift's  cracked 
and  feeble  voice.  Almost  she  regretted  having  given 
her  consent.  At  last  the  thought  flashed  into  her 
mind,  "  Why  should  I  not  read  it  myself?  I  know  I 
could  be  heard  in  every  corner  of  that  little  church." 
The  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  she  longed  to  do 
it,  and  the  less  she  shrank  from  the  idea  of  facing  the 
congregation. 

"'It's  only  just  like  a  big  family  of  children,'  Seth 
always  used  to  say,  "and  I'm  sure  I  feel  as  if  they 
were  mine  now,  as  much  as  ever  they  were  his.  I  wish 
I  dared  do  it.  I  do  believe  Seth  would  like  it,"  and 
Draxy  fell  asleep  comforted  by  the  thought.  Before 
breakfast  she  consulted  her  father,  and  he  approved  it 
warmly. 

"  I  believe  your  mission  isn't  done  yet,  daughter,  to 
these  people  of  your  husband's.  The  more  you  speak 
to  'em  the  better.  It  '11  be  jest  like  his  voice  speaking 
from  heaven  to  'em,"  said  Reuben,  "an'  I' shouldn't 
wonder  if  keepin'  Elder  Williams  away  was  all  the 
Lord's  doin',  as  the  blessed  saint  used  to  say." 

Reuben's  approval  was  all  that  Draxy  needed  to 
strengthen  her  impulse,  and  before  Deacon  Swift  ar- 
rived her  only  perplexity  was  as  to  the  best  way  of 
making  the  proposition  to  him.  All  this  difficulty  he 
had  himself  smoothed  away  by  his  first  words. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Deacon  Swift,"  she  said.  "  I've  been 
thinking  that  perhaps  it  would  tire  you  to  read  for  so 
long  a  time  in  aloud  voice  ;  and  besides,  Mr.  Kinney's 
handwriting  is  very  hard  to  read." 


I40  SAXE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Draxy  paused  and  looked  sympathizingly  in  the 
deacon's  face.  The  mention  of  the  illegible  writing 
distressed  the  poor  man  still  more.  He  took  the  ser- 
mon from  her  hand  and  glanced  nervously  at  the  first 
page. 

"  Oh  my  !  Mis'  Kinney,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  can't 
make  out  half  the  words." 

"  Can't  you  ? "  said  Draxy,  gently.  "  It  is  all  as 
plain  as  print  to  me,  I  know  it  so  well.  But  there  are 
some  abbreviations  Mr.  Kinney  always  used.  I  will 
explain  them  to  you.    Perhaps  that  will  make  it  easier." 

"  O  Mis'  Kinney,  Mis'  Kinney !  I  can't  never  do  it 
in  the  world,"  burst  out  the  poor  deacon.  '^  O  Mis' 
Kinney,  why  can't  you  read  it  to  the  folks  ?  They'd 
all  like  it,  I  know  they  would." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so,  Mr.  Swift  ? "  replied  Draxy ; 
and  then,  with  a  little  twinge  of  conscience,  added  im- 
mediately, "  I  have  been  thinking  of  that  very  thing 
myself,  that  perhaps,  if  it  wouldn't  seem  strange  to  the 
people,  that  would  be  the  best  way,  because  I  know 
the  handwriting  so  well,  and  it  really  is  very  hard  for 
a  stranger  to  read." 

Yes,  yes,  that's  the  very  thing,"  hastily  exclaimed 
the  relieved  deacon,  —  "  that's  it,  that's  it.  Why,  Mis' 
Kinney,  as  for  their  thinkin'  it  strange,  there  ain't  a 
man  in  the  parish  that  wouldn't  vote  for  you  for 
minister  twice  over  if  ye  wuz  only  a  man.  I've  heerd 
'em  all  say  so  more  'n  a  thousand  times  sence." 
Something  in  Draxy's  face  cut  the  Deacon's  sentence 
short. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Swift,"  she  said.  "Then  I  will 
try,  since   you  think  it  best.     My  father  thought  it 


THE  ELDER'S    WIFE.  U* 

would  be  a  good  plan  too,  or  else  I  should  not  have 
been  willing,"  she  added,  gently. 

*' Reuben  Miller's  daughter"  was  still  as  guileless, 
reverent,  potent  a  thought  in  Draxy's  heart  as  when, 
upon  her  unconscious  childish  lips,  the  words  had  been 
a  spell,  disarming  and  winning  all  hearts  to  her. 

The  news  had  gone  all  through  the  village  on  Satur- 
day night,  that  Deacon  Swift  was  to  read  one  of  Elder 
Kinney's  sermons  the  next  day.  The  whole  parish  was 
present ;  not  a  man,  not  a  woman  was  missing  except 
those  who  were  kept  at  home  by  sickness.  A  tender 
solemnity  was  in  every  face.  Not  often  does  it  happen 
to  a  man  to  be  so  beloved  by  a  whole  community  as 
was  Elder  Kinney  by  this  people. 

With  some  embarrassment  and  hesitation,  Deacon 
Swift  read  the  hymns  and  made  one  of  the  prayers ; 
Deacon  Plummer  made  the  other.     Then  there  came 
a  pause.     Draxy  flushed  scarlet  and  half  rose  in  her 
pew.     She  had  not  thought  to  tell  the  Deacon  that  he 
must  explain  to  the  people  beforehand  why  she  read 
the    sermon.     She  had    taken  it  for  granted  that  he 
would    do  so ;  but   he  did    not  comprehend   that  he 
ought,  and  only  looked  nervously  towards  her,  waiting 
for  heV  to  come  forward.     This  was  the  one  moment 
which  tried  Draxy's  soul ;  there  was  almost  vexation 
in  her  look,  as  hastily   laying   aside  her   bonnet   she 
walked  up  to  the  table    in   front   of  the   pulpit,  and, 
turning  towards  the  people,  said  in  her  clear,  melodi- 
ous voice,  — 

"  Dear  friends,  I  am  sorry  Deacon  Swift  did  not  ex- 
plain to  you  that  I  was  to  read  the  sermon.  He  asked 
me  to  do  so  because  Mr.  Kinney's  handwriting  is  venf 
hard  for  a  stranger  to  read." 


142  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

She  paused  for  a  second,  and  then  added : 

"  The  sermon  which  I  have  chosen  is  one  which 
some  of  you  will  remember.  It  was  written  and 
preached  nine  years  ago.  The  text  is  in  the  beautiful 
Gospel  of  St.  John,  the  14th  chapter  and  the  27th 
verse,  — 

"  '  Peace  I  leave  with  you ;  my  peace  I  give  unto 
you.' " 

After  pronouncing  these  words,  Draxy  paused  again, 
and  looking  towards  her  pew,  made  a  slight  sign  to 
Reuby.  The  child  understood  instantly,  and  w^alked 
swiftly  to  her. 

"  Sit  in  this  chair  here  by  mamma,  Reuby  darling," 
she  whispered,  and  Reuby  climbed  up  into  the  big 
chair  on  her  right  hand,  and  leaned  his  fair  golden 
head  against  the  high  mahogany  back.  Draxy  had 
become  conscious,  in  that  first  second,  that  she  could 
not  read  with  Reuby's  wistful  face  in  sight.  Also  she 
felt  a  sudden  yearning  for  the  support  of  his  nearer 
presence. 

"Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I  give  unto 
you,"  she  repeated,  and  went  on  with  the  sermon. 
Her  tones  were  low,  but  clear,  and  her  articulation  so 
perfect  that  no  syllable  was  lost;  she  could  have  been 
distinctly  heard  in  a  room  twice  as  large  as  this.  The 
sight  was  one  which  thrilled  every  heart  that  looked  on 
it;  no  poor  laboring  man  there  was  so  dull  of  sense, 
and  soul  that  he  did  not  sit  drinking  in  the  wonderful 
picture  :  the  tall,  queenly  woman  robed  in  simple  flow- 
ing white,  her  hair  a  coronet  of  snowy  silver ;  her 
dark  blue  eyes  shining  with  a  light  which  would  have 
been  flashingly  brilliant,  except  for  its  steadfast  seren- 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE  1 43 

ity  ;  her  mouth  almost  smiling,  as  the  clear  tones  flowed 
out ;  sitting  quiet,  intent,  by  her  side,  the  beautiful 
boy,  also  dressed  in  white,  his  face  lighted  like  hers  by 
serene  and  yet  gleaming  eyes  ;  hiy  head  covered  with 
golden  curls  ;  his  little  hands  folded  devoutly  in  his 
lap.  One  coming  suddenly  upon  the  scene  might  well 
have  fancied  himself  in  another  clime  and  age,  in  the 
presence  of  some  rite  performed  by  a  mystic  priestess 
clothed  in  samite.  But  the  words  which  fell  from  the 
lips  were  the  gentlest  words  of  the  gentlest  religion 
earth  has  known  ;  and  the  heart  which  beat  under 
the  clinging  folds  of  the  strange  white  garb  was  no 
priestess'  heart,  but  a  heart  full,  almost  to  breaking,  of 
wifehood,  of  motherhood. 

It  does  not  need  experience  as  an  orator  to  give 
significance  to  the  magnetic  language  of  upturned 
faces.  Before  Draxy  had  read  ten  pages  of  the  ser- 
mon, she  was  so  thrilled  by  the  consciousness  that 
every  heart  before  her  was  thrilled  too,  that  her  cheeks 
flushed  and  her  whole  face  glowed. 

The  sermon  had  sounded  eloquent  when  the  Elder 
preached  it ;  but  now,  from  Draxy's  lips,  it  was  trans- 
cendent    As  she  read  the  closing  paragraph,  — 

"  His  peace  He  leaves  with  us  :  his  peace  He  gives 
unto  us  :  not  such  peace  as  He  knew  on  earth  :  such 
peace  as  He  knows  now  in  heaven,  on  the  right  hand 
of  His  Father  ;  even  that  peace  He  bids  us  share  — 
vhat  peace,  the  peace  of  God  which  passeth  under- 
standing,"—  she  seemed  to  dilate  in  stature,  and  as 
she  let  the  sermon  fall  on  the  table  before  her,  her 
lifted  eyes  seemed  arrested  in  mid  air  as  by  a  celestial 
vision. 


144  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Then  in  a  second  more,  she  was  again  the  humble, 
affectionate  Draxy,  whom  all  the  women  and  all  the 
little  children  knew  and  loved ;  looking  round  on 
them  with  an  appealing  expression,  she  said,  — 

"  Dear  friends,  I  hope  I  have  not  done  wrong  in 
standing  up  here  and  taking  it  upon  me  to  read  such 
solemn  w^ords.  I  felt  that  Mr.  Kinney  would  like  to 
speak  to  you  once  more  through  me." 

Then  taking  little  Reuby  by  the  hand,  she  walked 
slowly  back  to  her  pew. 

Then  Deacon  Swift  made  sad  work  of  reading  the 
hymn^  — 

"  Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds," 

And  the  choir  made  sad  work  of  singing  it.  No- 
body's voice  could  be  trusted  for  many  syllables  at  a 
time,  but  nobody  listened  to  the  music.  Everybody 
was  impatient  to  speak  to  Draxy.  They  clustered 
round  her  in  the  aisle  ;  they  crowded  into  pews  to  get 
near  her :  all  the  reticence  and  reserve  of  their  New 
England  habit  had  melted  away  in  this  wonderful 
hour.  They  thanked  her  ;  they  touched  her  ;  they 
gazed  at  her ;  they  did  not  know  what  to  do  ;  even 
Draxy's  calm  was  visibly  disturbed  by  the  atmosphere 
of  their  great  excitement. 

"  O  Mis'  Kinney,  ef  ye'U  only  read  us  one  more  ! 
just  one  more  !  won't  ye,  now  ?  Do  say  ye  will,  right 
off,  this  arternoon ;  or  read  the  same  one  right  over, 
ef  that's  any  easier  for  ye.  We'd  like  to  hear  jest 
that  'n'  nothin'  else  for  a  year  to  come  !  O  Mis'  Kin- 
ney !  'twas  jest  like  hearin'  the  Elder  himself." 

Poor  Draxy  was  trembling.  Reuben  came  to  her 
rescue. 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  143 

"  I  hope  you  won't  take  it  unkindly  of  me,"  he  said, 
"  but  my  daughter's  feeling  more  than's  good  for  her. 
She  must  come  home  now."  And  Reuben  drew  her 
hand  into  his  arm. 

The  people  fell  back  sorry  and  conscience-stricken. 

"We  orter  ha'  known  better,"  they  said,  "but  she 
makes  us  forgit  she's  flesh  'n'  blood." 

"  I  will  read  you  another  sermon  some  time,"  said 
Draxy,  slowly.  ''I  shall  be  very  glad  to.  But  not  to- 
day. I  could  not  do  it  to-day."  Then  she  smiled  on 
them  all,  with  a  smile  which  was  a  benediction,  and 
walked  away  holding  Reuby's  hand  very  tightly,  and 
leaning  heavily  on  her  father's  arm. 

The  congregation  did  not  disperse  ;  nothing  since 
the  Elder's  death  had  so  moved  them.  They  gath- 
ered in  knots  on  the  church  steps  and  in  the  aisles, 
and  talked  long  and  earnestly.  There  was  but  one 
sentiment,  one  voice. 

"It's  a  thousand  shames  she  ain't  a  man,"  said  some 
of  the  young  men. 

"  It  'ud  be  a  thousand  times  more  ef  she  wuz,"  re- 
torted Angy  Plummer.  "  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  that 
'ud  do  what  she  does,  a  comin'  right  close  to  the  very 
heart  o'  yer  's  ef  she  was  your  mother  'n'  your  sister 
'n'  your  husband,  and  a  blessed  angel  o'  God,  all  ter 
once." 

"  But  Angy,  we  only  meant  that  then  we  could  hev 
her  for  our  minister,"  they  replied. 

Angy  turned  very  red,  but  replied;  energetically,  — 
"There    ain't  any  law  agin  a  woman's  bein'  minis- 
ter, thet  I  ever  heerd  on.     Howsomever,  Mis'  Kinney 
never'd  hear  to  anythin'  o'  that  kind.     I  don'  no'  foi 


10 


146  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

my  part  how  she  ever  mustered  up  courage  to  do  what 
she's  done,  so  kind  o'  backward  'n'  shy's  she  is  for  all 
her  strength.  But  for  my  part,  I  wouldn't  ask  for  no 
other  preachin'  all  the  rest  o'  my  life,  than  jest  to  hear 
Mis'  Kinney  read  one  o'  her  husband's  sermons  every 
Sunday." 

"Why,  Angy  Plummer  ! "  burst  from  more  lips  than 
one.  But  the  bold  suggestion  was  only  the  half-con- 
scious thought  of  every  one  there,  and  the  discussion 
grew  more  and  more  serious.  Slowly  the  people  dis- 
persed to  their  homes,  but  the  discussion  still  contin- 
ued. Late  into  night,  by  many  a  fireside,  the  matter 
was  talked  over,  and  late  the  next  night,  and  the  next, 
until  a  vague  hope  and  a  still  vaguer  purpose  sprang 
up  in  the  parish. 

""  She  said  she'd  read  another  some  day,"  they  reit- 
erated. "  Most  likely  she'd  's  soon  do  it  next  Sun- 
day, 'n'  sooner,  'cause  she'd  be  more  used  to't  than  ef 
she  waited  a  spell  between." 

"  But  it  won't  do  to  take  it  for  granted  she's  goin'  to, 
'n'  not  git  anybody,"  said  Deacon  Swift,  in  great  per- 
plexity. "I  think  Brother  Plummer  'n'  me'd  better 
go  'n'  ask  her." 

"  No,"  said  Angy,  "  let  me  go.  I  can  talk  it  over 
better'n  vou  can.     I'll  go." 

And  Angy  went.  The  interview  between  the  two 
women  was  long.  Angy  pleaded  as  nobody  else  in 
the  parish  could  have  done  ;  and  Draxy's  heart  was  all 
on  her  side.     But  Draxy's  judgment  was  unconvinced. 

"  If  I  could  be  sure,  Angy,  that  it  would  be  best  for 
the  people,  I  should  not  hesitate.  But  you  know  verj' 
well,  if  I  begin  I  shall  keep  on,"  she  said. 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  1 47 

She  consulted  Reuben.  His  heart,  too,  was  on  the 
people's  side,  but  his  judgment  was  like  hers,  per- 
plexed. 

"  One  thing's  very  certain,  daughter :  there  is  not 
anybody  they  can  ever  find  to  settle  here,  or  that  they 
are  likely  to,  who  can  preach  as  the  Elder  did.  His 
old  sermons  are  worlds  better  than  any  new  ones 
they'll  get." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  know  that,"  said  Draxy.  "That's 
what  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  musi  do  it." 

This  had  been  her  strongest  motive.  Only  too  well 
she  knew  what  would  be  the  probable  calibre  of  a  man 
who  would  come  to  this  poor  and  lonely  little  village 
which  she  so  loved. 

At  last  she  consented  to  make  the  experiment.  "  I 
will  read  for  you  every  Sunday,  two  sermons  of  Mr. 
Kinney's,"  she  said,  "  until  you  hear  of  some  one 
whom  you  would  like  to  settle  for  your  minister." 

Angy  Plummer,  clapped  her  hands  when  her  father 
repeated  at  tea  on  Thursday  evening  what  "  Mis'  Kin- 
ney "  had  said. 

"  That's  good  's  settlin'  her,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh, 
I  never  thought  she'd  come  to  it/'  and  real  tears  of 
joy  stood  in  Angy's  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know  'bout  that,  Angy,"  replied  the  Dea- 
con ;  "  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  thought  on,  fust  'n' 
last.  Folks  '11  talk  like  everythin',  I  expect,  'n'  say 
we've  got  a  woman  preacher.  It  wouldn't  never  do 
for  any  great  length  o'  time  ;  but  it  will  be  a  blessin' 
to  hear  some  th'  Elder's  good  rousin'  comfortin'  ser- 
mons for  a  spell,  arter  the  stuff  we  hev  been  a  havin', 
'n'  they  can't  say  she's  any  more  'n'  a  reader  anyhow. 
That's  quite  different  from  preachin'." 


148  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Angy,  who  was  wise  enough 
to  keep  some  of  her  thoughts  and  hopes  to  herself; 
"  they're  's  different  's  any  other  two  things.  I  don't 
suppose  anybody'd  say  you  was  a  settin'  up  to  preach, 
if  you'd  ha'  read  the  sermons,  'n'  I  don't  see  why  they 
need  to  any  more  o'  Mis'  Kinney."  And  so,  on  the 
next  Sunday  Draxy's  ministry  to  her  husband's  people 
began.  Again  with  softened  and  gladdened  faces  the 
little  congregation  looked  up  to  the  fair,  tall  priestess 
with  her  snow-white  robes  and  snow-white  hair,  and 
gleaming  steadfast  eyes,  standing  meekly  between 
the  communion-table  and  the  chair  in  which  sat  her 
golden-haired  little  son.  Her  voice  was  clearer  and 
stronger  than  ever ;  and  there  was  a  calm  peacefulness 
in  her  whole  atmosphere  which  had  not  been  there  at 
first. 

Again  the  people  crowded  around,  and  thanked  her, 
and  clasped  her  hands.  This  time  she  answered  them 
with  cordial  good  cheer,  and  did  not  tremble.  To  lit- 
tle Reuby  also  they  spoke  gratefully. 

"  You  help  too,  Reuby,  don't  you  ? "  said  Angy 
Plummer,  —  ""  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Very  much,  ma'am  ;  mamma  says  I  help,  but  I 
think  she's  mistaken,"  replied  the  little  fellow,  archly. 

"Yes  you  do,  you  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Plummer, 
stooping  and  kissing  him  tenderl3\  Angy  Plummer 
loved  Reuby.  She  never  looked  at  him  without  think- 
ing that  but  for  his  existence  the  true  mother-heart 
would  perhaps  never  have  been  born  in  her  bosom. 

The  reading  of  the  sermons  grew  easier  and  easier 
flO  Draxy,  Sunday  by  Sunday.  She  became  conscious 
of  a  strange  sense  of  being  lifted  out  of  herself,  as  soon 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  1 49 

as  she  began  to  speak.  She  felt  more  and  more  as  if 
it  were  her  husband  speaking  through  her  ;  and  she 
felt  more  and  more  closely  drawn  into  relation  with 
the  people. 

"  Oh,  father  dear,"  she  said  more  than  once,  '^  I 
don't  know  how  I  shall  ever  give  it  up  when  the  time 
comes.  It  makes  me  so  happy  :  I  feel  almost  as  if  I 
could  see  Seth  standing  right  by  me  and  holding  my 
gown  while  I  read.  And  father,  dear,"  she  proceeded 
in  a  lower,  slower  voice,  "  I  don't  know  but  you'll 
think  it  wrong ;  I'm  almost  afraid  to  tell  you,  but 
sometimes  I  say  words  that  aren't  in  the  sermons  ;  just 
a  sentence  or  two,  where  I  think  Seth  would  put  it  in 
if  he  were  here  now  \  and  I  almost  believe  he  puts  the 
very  words  into  my  head." 

She  paused  and  looked  anxiously  and  inquiringly  at 
her  father. 

"  No,  Draxy,"  replied  Reuben  solemnly,  "  I  don't 
think  it  wrong.  I  feel  more  and  more,  every  Sunday  I 
listen  to  you,  as  if  the  Lord  had  set  you  apart  for  this 
thing ;  and  I  don't  believe  he'd  send  any  other  angel 
except  your  husband  on  the  errand  of  helpin'  you." 

The  summer  passed,  and  the  parish  gave  no  signs 
of  readiness  for  a  new  minister.  When  Draxy  spoke 
of  it,  she  was  met  by  such  heartfelt  grief  on  all  sides 
that  she  was  silenced.  At  last  she  had  a  long,  serious 
talk  with  the  deacons,  which  set  her  mind  more  at  rest. 
They  had,  it  seemed,  consulted  several  neighboring 
ministers,  Elder  Williams  among  the  number,  and  they 
iftad  all  advised  that  while  the  congregation  seemed  so 
absorbed  in  interest,  no  change  should  be  made. 

"  Elder  Williams  he  sez  he'll  come  over  regular  for 


150  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

the  communion,"  said  Deacon  Plummer,  "  and  for  bap- 
tisms wlienever  we  want  him,  and  thet's  the  main 
thing,  for,  thank  the  Lord,  we  haint  many  funerals  'n 
course  of  a  year.  And  Mis'  Kinney,  ef  ye'U  excuse 
my  makin'  so  bold,  I'll  tell  ye  jest  what  Elder  Williams 
said  about  ye  :  sez  he,  It's  my  opinion  that  ef  there 
was  ever  a  woman  born  thet  was  jest  cut  out  for  a 
minister  to  a  congregation,  it's  that  Elder's  wife  o' 
your'n  ;  and  sez  we  to  him  "  Thet's  jest  what  the  hull 
town  thinks,  sir,  and  it's  our  opinion  that  ef  we 
should  try  to  settle  anythin'  in  the  shape  of  a  man 
in  this  parish,  there  wouldn't  be  anythin'  but  empty 
pews  for  him  to  preach  to^  for  the  people*d  all  be  gone 
up  to  Mis'  Kinney's.'  " 

Draxy  smiled  in  spite  of  herself.  But  her  heart 
was  very  solemn. 

"  It  is  a  great  responsibility.  Deacon  Plummer,"  she 
said,  and  I  feel  afraid  all  the  time.  But  my  father 
thinks  I  ought  to  do  it,  and  I  am  so  happy  in  it,  it 
seems  as  if  it  could  not  be  a  mistake." 

As  months  went  on,  her  misgivings  grew  less  and 
less  ;  and  her  impulses  to  add  words  of  her  own  to  her 
husband's  sermons  grew  more  and  more  frequent. 
She  could  not  but  see  that  she  held  the  hearts  of  the 
people  in  her  hands  to  mould  them  like  wax ;  and  her 
intimate  knowledge  of  their  conditions  and  needs 
made  it  impossible  for  her  to  refrain  from  sometimes 
speaking  the  words  she  knew  they  ought  to  hear. 
Whenever  she  did  so  at  anv  len2:th,  she  laid  her 
manuscript  on  the  table,  that  they  might  know  the 
truth.  Her  sense  of  honesty  would  not  let  her  do 
otherwise.     It  was    long   before    anybody   but   Angy 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  15I 

Plummer  understood  the  meaning  of  these  intervals. 
The  rest  supposed  she  knew  parts  of  the  sermon  by 

heart. 

But  at  last  came  a  day  when  her  soul  was  so  stirred 
within  her,  that  she  rose  up  boldly  before  her  people 

and  said, — 

"  I  have  not  brought  any  sermon  of  Mr.  Kinney's  to 
read  to  you  to-day.  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you  my- 
self. I  am  so  grieved,  so  shocked  at  events  which 
have  taken  place  in  this  village,  the  past  week,  that  I 
cannot  help  speaking  about  them.  And  I  find  among 
Mr.  Kinney's  sermons  no  one  which  meets  this  state 

of  things." 

The  circumstances  to  which  Draxy  alluded  had  been 
some  disgraceful  scenes  of  excitement  in  connection 
with  the  Presidential  election.     Party  spirit  had  been 
growing   higher   and   higher   in    Clairvend  for   some 
years  \  and  when,  on  the  reckoning  of  the  returns  on 
this  occasion,  the  victorious  part}^  proved  to  have  a 
majority  of  but  three,  sharp  quarreling  had  at  once 
broken  out.     Accusations  of  cheating  and  lying  were 
freely  bandied,    and    Deacon    Plummer    and    George 
Thayer  had  nearly  come  to  blows  on  the  steps  of  the 
Town  House,  at  high  noon,  just  as  the  school-children 
were  going  home.     Later  in  the  afternoon  there  had 
been  a  renewal  of  the  contest  in  the  village  store,  and 
it  had  culminated  in  a  fight,  part  of  which  Draxy  her- 
self had  chanced  to    see.     Long  and    anxiously   she 
pondered,  that  night,  the  question  of  her  duty.      She 
ciared  not  keep  silent. 

"  It  would  be  just  hypocrisy  and  nothing  less,"  she 
exclaimed   to   herself,  "  for  me  to  stand  up  there   and 


152  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

read  them  one  of  Seth's  sermons,  when  I  am  burning 
to  tell  them  how  shamefully  they  have  behaved.  But 
I  suppose  it  will  be  the  last  time  I  shall  speak  to 
them..    They'll  never  want  to  hear  me  again." 

She  did  not  tell  her  father  of  her  resolution  till 
they  were  near  the  church.  Reuben  started,  but  in 
a  moment  he  said,  deliberately,  — 

"  You're  quite  right,  daughter  ;  may  the  Lord  bless 
you ! " 

At  Draxy's  first  words,  a  thrill  of  astonishment 
ran  over  the  whole  congregation.  Everybody  knew 
what  was  coming.  George  Thayer  colored  scarlet 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  the  color  never  faded  till 
the  sermon  was  ended.  Deacon  Plummer  couched 
nervously,  and  changed  his  position  so  as  to  cover 
his  mouth  with  his  hand.  Angy  put  her  head  down 
on  the  front  of  the  pew  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Render,  therefore,  unto  Caesar  the  things  that 
are  Caesar's  and  unto  God  the  things  that  are  God's," 
came  in  clear  ringing  tones  from  Draxy's  lips.  Then 
she  proceeded,  in  simple  and  gentle  words,  to  set 
forth  the  right  of  every  man  to  his  own  opinions  and 
convictions  ;  the  duty  of  having  earnest  convictions 
and  acting  up  to  them  in  all  the  affairs  of  life.  George 
Thaj'er  and  the  Deacon  looked  easier.  Her  words 
seemed,  after  all,  rather  a  justification  of  their  ve- 
hemence of  feeling:. 

But  when  she  came  to  speak  of  the  '^  things  that  are 
God's,"  her  words  pierced  their  very  souls.  The  only 
thing  that  enabled  George  Thayer  to  bear  up  under 
it  at  all  was,  as  he  afterwards  said  in  the  store,  keep- 
ing his  "  eyes  fixed  steady  on  old  Plummer,"  "  'cause, 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  1 53 

y^ou  know,  boys,  I  never  jined  the  church  nor  made 
any  kind  o'  profession  o'  goin'  in  for  any  things  o' 
God's,  nohow  ;  not  but  what  I've  often  wished  I  could 
see  my  way  to :  but  sez  I  to  myself,  ef  he  kin  stan'  it 
I  kin,  an'  so  I  held  out.  But  I  tell  you,  boys,  I'd 
rather  drive  the  wust  six-hoss  team  I  ever  got  hold  on 
down  Breakneck  Hill  'n  the  dark,  than  set  there  agin 
under  thet  woman's  eyes,  a  blazin'  one  minnit,  'n 
fillin'  with  tears  the  next :  'n'  I  don't  care  what  any- 
body sez  j  I'm  a  goin'  to  see  her  an'  tell  her  that 
she  needn't  be  afeard  o'  ever  hevin  to  preach  to  me 
s'  good  s'  by  my  name,  in  the  meeting  'us  agin,  by 
thunder ! " 

"  Suppose  the  blessed  Saviour  had  come  walking 
through  our  streets,  looking  for  his  children  last 
Wednesday,"  said  Draxy,  "  He  would  say  to  himself, 
*  I  shall  know  them,  wherever  I  find  them :  I  have 
given  them  so  many  badges,  they  will  be  sure  to  be 
wearing  some  of  them.  They  suffer  long  and  are 
kind  ;  they  envy  not,  vaunt  not,  are  not  puffed  up : 
they  are  not  easily  provoked,  think  no  evil,  seek  not 
their  own,  rejoice  in  the  truth ;  they  do  not  behave 
unseemly.'  Alas,  would  the  dear  Jesus  have  turned 
away,  believing  Himself  a  stranger  and  friendless  in 
our  village  ?  Which  one  of  you,  dear  men,  could 
have  sprung  forward  to  take  him  by  the  hand  ?  What 
terrible  silence  would  have  fallen  upon  you  as  he 
looked  round  on  your  angry  faces  !  " 

Tears  were  rolling  down  little  Reuby's  face.  Slyly 
he  tried  to  wipe  them  away,  first  with  one  hand,  then 
with  the  other,  lest  his  mother  should  see  them.  He 
had  never  in  his  life  seen  such  an  expression  of  suffer 


154  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

ing  on  her  face.  He  had  never  heard  such  tones  of 
pain  in  her  voice.  He  was  sorely  perplexed  j  and 
the  sight  of  his  distressed  little  face  was  almost  more 
than  the  people  could  bear. 

When  Draxy  stopped  speaking,  Deacon  Plummer 
did  a  manly  thing.  He  rose  instantly,  and  saying 
"  Let  us  pray/'  poured  out  as  humble  and  contrite  a 
petition  for  forgiveness  as  ever  went  up  on  wings  of 
faith  to  Heaven.  It  cleared  the  air,  like  sweet  rain  ; 
it  rolled  a  burden  off  everybody's  heart  —  most  of 
all,  perhaps,  off  Draxy's. 

"  He  is  not  angry,  after  all,"  she  said ;  God  has 
laid  it  to  his  heart ; "  and  when,  at  the  end  of  the 
services,  the  old  man  came  up  to  her  and  held  out 
his  hand,  she  took  it  in  both  of  hers,  and  said,  "Thank 
you,  dear  Deacon  Plummer,  thank  you  for  helping  me 
so  much  to-day.  Your  prayer  was  better  for  the  people 
than  my  little  sermon,  a  great  deal."  The  deacon 
wrung  her  hands,  but  did  not  speak  a  word,  only 
stooped  and  kissed  Reuby. 

After  this  day,  Draxy  had  a  new  hold  on  the  people. 
They  had  really  felt  very  little  surprise  at  her  speak- 
ing to  themes  she  did.  She  had  slowly  and  insensibly 
to  herself  grown  into  the  same  place  which  the  Elder 
had  had  in  their  regard ;  the  same  in  love  and  confi- 
dence, but  higher  in  reverence,  and  admiration,  for 
although  she  sympathized  just  as  lovingly  as  he  in  all 
their  feelings,  they  never  for  a  moment  ceased  to  feel 
that  her  nature  was  on  a  higher  plane  than  his.  They 
could  not  have  put  this  in  words,  but  they  felt  it. 

"  Donno,  how  'tis,"  they  said,  "  but  Mis'  Kinney, 
even  when  she's  closest  to  ye,  an'  a  doin'  for  ye  all 
the  time,  don't  seem  just  like  a  mortal  woman." 


THE  ELDER'S    WIFE.  1 55 

"It's  easy  enough  to  know  how 'tis,"  replied  Angy 
Plummer,  once,  in  a  moment  of  unguarded  frankness, 
'^  ]\Iis  Kinney  is  a  kjnd  o'  daughter  o'  God,  somthin' 
as  Jesus  Christ  was  His  Son.  It's  just  the  way  Jesus 
Christ  used  to  go  round  among  folks,  's  near  's  I  can 
make  out;  'n'  I  for  one,  don't  believe  that  God  jest 
sent  Him,  once  for  all,  'n'  haint  never  sent  anybody 
else  near  us,  all  this  time.  I  reckon  He's  a  sendin' 
down  sons  and  daughters  to  us  oftener  'n'  we  think." 

"  Angy  Plummer,  I  call  that  downright  blasphemy," 
exclaimed  her  mother. 

"  Well,  call  it  what  you're  a  mind  to,"  retorted  the 
crisp  Angy.     "  It's  what  I  believe." 

"  'Tis  blasphemy  though,  to  be  sayin'  it  to  folks 
that  can't  understand,"  she  muttered  to  herself  as  she 
left  the  room,  "  ef  blasphemy  means  what  Mis'  Kinney 
sez  it  does,  to  speak  stupidly." 

Three  years  had  passed.  The  novelty  of  Draxy's 
relation  to  her  people  had  worn  off.  The  neighboring 
people  had  ceased  to  wonder  and  to  talk  ;  and  the 
neighboring  ministers  had  ceased  to  doubt  and  ques- 
tion. Clairvend  and  she  had  a  stout  supporter  in  old 
Elder  Williams,  who  was  looked  upon  as  a  high  au- 
thority throughout  the  region.  He  always  stayed  at 
Reuben  Miller's  house,  when  he  came  to  the  town, 
and  his  counsel  and  sympathy  were  invaluable  to 
Draxy.  Sometimes  he  said  jocosely,  "  I  am  che  pastor 
of  Brother  Kinney's  old  parish  and  Mis'  Kinney  is  my 
curate,  and  I  wish  everybody  had  as  good  an  one." 

It  finally  grew  to  be  Draxy's  custom  to  read  one  of 
ber  husband's  sermons  in  the  forenoon,  and  to  talk 
to  the  people  informally  in  the  afternoon.     Sometimes 


156  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

she  wrote  out  what  she  wished  to  say,  but  usually  she 
spoke  without  any  notes.  She  also  wrote  hymns 
which  she  read  to  them,  and  which  the  choir  some- 
times sang.  She  was  now  fully  imbued  with  the 
feeling  that  ever}'thing  which  she  could  do,  belonged 
to  her  people.  Next  to  Reuben,  they  filled  her  heart; 
the  sentiment  was  after  all  but  an  expanded  and  exalted 
motherhood.  Strangers  sometimes  came  to  Clairvend 
to  hear  her  preach,  for  of  course  the  fame  of  the 
beautiful  white-robed  woman-preacher  could  not  be 
confined  to  her  own  village.  This  always  troubled 
Draxy  very  much. 

"  If  we  were  not  so  far  out  of  the  world,  I  should 
have  to  give  it  up,"  she  said  ;  "  I  know  it  is  proper 
they  should  come  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  just  as  strange 
as  if  they  were  to  walk  into  the  study  in  the  evening 
when  I  am  teaching  Reuby.  I  can't  make  it  seem 
right ;  and  when  I  see  them  writing  down  what  I  say, 
it  just  paralyzes  me." 

It  might  have  seemed  so  to  Draxy,  but  it  did  not 
to  her  hearers.  No  one  would  have  supposed  her 
conscious  of  any  disturbing  presence.  And  more 
than  one  visitor  carried  away  with  him  written  records 
of  her  eloquent  words. 

One  of  her  most  remarkable  sermons  was  called 
"  The  Gospel  of  Mystery." 

The  text  was  Psalm  xix.  2  :  — 

"  Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and  night  unto  night  sheweth 
knowledge." 

First  she  dwelt  on  the  sweet  meaning  of  the   word 
Gospel.     "Dear   friends,"    she  said,    "it  is    a  much 


THE  ELDER'S    WIFE,  157 

simpler  word  thau  we  realize  ;  it  is  only  '  good  news,* 
'good  tidings.'  We  get  gospels  every  day.  Our  chil- 
dren send  us  good  news  of  their  lives.  What  gospels 
of  joy  are  such  letters  !  And  nations  to  nations  send 
good  news :  a  race  of  slaves  is  set  free  ;  a  war  has 
ended  ;  shiploads  of  grain  have  been  sent  to  the 
starving ;  a  good  man  has  been  made  ruler ;  these 
are  good  tidings  —  gospels." 

After  dwelling  on  this  first,  simplest  idea  of  the 
word,  until  every  one  of  her  hearers  had  begun  to 
think  vividly  of  all  the  good  tidings  journeying  in 
words  back  and  forth  between  heart  and  heart,  con- 
tinent and  continent,  she  spoke  of  the  good  news 
which  nature  tells  without  words.  Here  she  was 
eloquent.  Subtle  as  the  ideas  were,  they  were  yet 
clothed  in  the  plain  speech  which  the  plain  people 
understood :  the  tidings  of  the  spring,  ■  of  the  winter, 
of  the  river,  of  the  mountain ;  of  gold,  of  silver,  of 
electric  fire  \  of  blossom  and  fruit ;  of  seed-time  and 
harvest  \  of  suns  and  stars  and  waters,  —  these  were 
the  "  speech"  which  "  day  uttered  unto  day." 

But  "  knowledge  was  greater  "  than  speech :  night 
in  her  silence  "  showed "  what  day  could  not  tell. 
Here  the  faces  of  the  people  grew  fixed  and  earnest. 
In  any  other  hands  than  Draxy's  the  thought  would 
have  been  too  deep  for  them,  and  they  would  have 
turned  from  it  wearily.  But  her  simplicity  controlled 
them  always.  "  Stand  on  your  door-steps  on  a  dark 
night,"  she  said,  —  "a  night  so  dark  that  you  can  see 
nothing:  looking  out  into  this  silent  darkness,  you 
will  presently  feel  a  far  greater  sense  of  how  vast  the 
ivorld  is,  than  you  do  in  broad  noon-day,  when  you 
can  see  up  to  the  very  sun  himself" 


158  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

More  than  one  young  face  -  in  the  congregation 
showed  that  this  sentence  struck  home  and  threw  light 
on  hitherto  unexplained  emotions.  *''  This  is  like  what 
I  mean,"  continued  Draxy,  "  by  the  Gospel  of  Mys- 
tery, the  good  tidings  of  the  things  we  cannot  under- 
stand. This  gospel  is  everywhere.  Not  the  wisest 
man  that  has  ever  lived  can  fully  understand  the 
smallest  created  thing :  a  drop  of  water,  a  grain  of 
dust,  a  beam  of  light,  can  baffle  his  utmost  research. 
So  with  our  own  lives,  with  our  own  hearts  ;  everj'  day 
brings  a  mystery  —  sin  and  grief  and  death  :  all  these 
are  mysteries  ;  gospels  of  myster}^,  good  tidings  of  mys- 
tery ;  yes,  good  tidings  !  These  are  what  prove  that  God 
means  to  take  us  into  another  world  after  this  one ; 
into  a  world  where  all  things  which  perplexed  us  here 
will  be  explained O  my  dear  friends  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed at  last,  clasping  her  hands  tightly,  "  thank  God 
for  the  things  which  we  cannot  understand  :  except 
for  them,  how  should  we  ever  be  sure  of  immortality  ?  " 

Then  she  read  them  a  hymn  called  "  The  Gospel  of 
Myster}\"  Coming  after  the  sermon,  it  was  sweet  and 
clear  to  all  the  people's  hearts.  Before  the  sermon  it 
would  have  seemed  obscure. 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  MYSTERY. 

Good  tidings  every  day, 

God's  messengers  ride  fast. 

We  do  not  hear  one  half  they  say, 
There  is  such  noise  on  the  highway. 

Where  we  must  wait  while  they  ride  past. 

Their  banners  blaze  and  shine 
With  Jesus  Christ's  dear  name^ 


THE   ELDER'S    WIFE.  I  59 

And  story,  how  by  God's  design 

He  saves  us,  in  His  love  divine, 

And  lifts  us  from  our  sin  and  shame. 

Their  music  fills  the  air, 

Their  songs  sing  all  of  Heaven ; 

Their  ringing  trumpet  peals  declare 
What  crowns  to  souls  who  fight  and  dare, 

And  win,  shall  presently  be  given. 

Their  hands  throw  treasures  round 
Among  the  multitude. 

No  pause,  no  choice,  no  count,  no  bound. 

No  questioning  how  men  are  found, 
If  they  be  evil  or  be  good. 

But  all  the  banners  bear 

Some  words  we  cannot  read  ; 
And  mystic  echoes  in  the  air, 
Which  borrow  from  the  songs  no  share, 

In  sweetness  all  the  songs  exceed. 

And  of  the  multitude, 

No  man  but  in  his  hand 

Holds  some  great  gift  misunderstood. 
Some  treasure,  for  whose  use  or  good 

His  ignorance  sees  no  demand. 

These  are  the  tokens  lent 
By  immortality ; 

Birth-marks  of  our  divine  descent  j 

Sureties  of  ultimate  intent, 
God's  Gospel  of  Eternity. 

Good  tidings  every  day. 
The  messengers  ride  fast ; 

Thanks  be  to  God  for  all  they  say  ; 

There  is  such  noise  on  the  highway, 
Let  us  keep  still  while  they  ride  past. 


l60  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

But  the  sermon  which  of  all  others  her  people  loved 
best  was  one  on  the  Love  of  God.  This  one  she  was 
often  asked  to  repeat,  —  so  often,  that  she  said  one 
day  to  Ang)',  who  asked  for  it,  "Why,  Angy,  I  am 
ashamed  to.  Everybody  must  know  it  by  heart.  I 
am  sure  I  do.'' 

"Yes,  that's  jest  the  way  we  do  know  it.  Mis'  Kin- 
ney, by  heart,"  said  the  affectionate  Angy,  "  an'  that's 
jest  the  reason  we  want  it  so  often.  I  never  told  ye 
what  George  Thayer  said  the  last  time  you  read  it  to 
us,  did  I?" 

"No,  Angy,"  said  Draxy. 

"  Well,  he  was  singing  in  the  choir  that  day,  'n  place 
o'  his  brother,  who  was  sick ;  'n'  he  jumped  up  on  one 
o'  the  seats  'n'  swung  his  hat,  jest  's  you  was  goin' 
down  the  aisle,  'n'  we  all  ketched  hold  on  him  to  pull 
him  down,  'n'  try  to  hush  him  ;  for  you  can't  never  tell 
what  George  Thayer  '11  do  when  his  blood's  up,  'n'  we 
was  afraid  he  was  agoin'  to  holler  right  out,  's  ef  he 
was  in  the  town-'us  ;  but  sez  he,  in  a  real  low,  trembly 
kind  o'  voice, 

"  '  Ye  needn't  be  afraid,  I  ain't  agoin'  to  whoop  ;  — 
taint  that  way  I  feel,  —  but  I  had  to  do  suthin'  or  I 
should  bust':  'n'  there. was  reel  tears  in  his  eyes  — 
George  Thayer's  eyes,  Mis'  Kinney !  Then  he  jumped 
down,  'n'  sez  he,  'I'll  tell  ye  what  that  sermon's  like: 
it's  jest  like  one  great  rainbow  all  round  ye,  and  before 
'n'  behind  'n'  everywheres,  'n'  the  end  on't  reaches  way 
to  the  Throne  ;  it  jest  dazzles  my  eyes,  that's  what  it 
does.' " 

This  sermon  had  concluded  with  the  following  hymn, 
which  Draxy  had  written  when  Reuby  was  only  a 
few  weeks  old :  — 


THE  ELDER'S   WIFE.  l6l 

THE  LOVE  OF  GOD. 

Like  a  cradle  rocking,  rocking, 

Silent,  peaceful,  to  and  fro, 
Like  a  mother's  sweet  looks  dropping 

On  the  little  face  below, 
Hangs  the  green  earth,  swinging,  turning, 

Jarless,  noiseless,  safe  and  slow ; 
Falls  the  light  of  God's  face  bending 

Down  and  watching  us  below. 

And  as  feeble  babes  that  suffer, 

Toss  and  cry,  and  will  not  rest, 
Are  the  ones  the  tender  mother 

Holds  the  closest,  loves  the  best. 
So  when  we  are  weak  and  wretched, 

By  our  sins  weighed  down,  distressed, 
Then  it  is  that  God's  great  patience 

Holds  us  closest,  loves  us  best. 

O  great  Heart  of  God  !  whose  loving 

Cannot  hindered  be  nor  crossed  ; 
Will  not  weary,  will  not  even 

In  our  death  itself  be  lost  — 
Love  divine  !  of  such  great  loving. 

Only  mothers  know  the  cost  — 
Cost  of  love,  which  all  love  passing, 

Gave  a  Son  to  save  the  lost. 


There  is  little  more  to  tell  of  Draxy's  ministry.  It 
closed  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun. 

It  was  just  five  years  after  the  Elder's  death  that  she 
found  herself,  one  Sunday  morning,  feeling  singularly 
feeble  and  lifeless.  She  was  bewildered  at  the  sensa- 
tion, for  in  her  apparent  health  she  had  never  felt  it 
before.  She  could  hardly  walk,  could  hardly  stand. 
II 


1 62  SAKE  HOLAPS  STORIES. 

She  felt  also  a  strange  apathy  which  prevented  her  be- 
ing alarmed. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  said  ;  "  I  dare  say  most  women 
are  so  all  the  time  ;  I  don't  feel  in  the  least  ill  ; "  and 
she  insisted  upon  it  that  no  one  should  remain  at 
home  with  her.  It  was  a  communion  Sunday  and 
Elder  Williams  was  to  preach. 

"  How  fortunate  it  is  that  Mr.  Williams  was  here ! " 
she  thought  languidly,  as  she  seated  herself  in  the 
eastern  bay-window,  to  watch  Reuby  down  the  hill. 
He  walked  between  his  grandparents,  holding  each  by 
the  hand,  talking  merrily  and  looking  up  into  their 
faces. 

Draxy  watched  them  until  their  figures  became  dim, 
black  specks,  and  finally  faded  out  of  sight.  Then 
she  listened  dreamily  to  the  notes  of  the  slow-tolling 
bell  ;  when  it  ceased  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  her 
thoughts  ran  back,  far  back  to  the  days  when  she  was 
"  little  Draxy  "  and  Elder  Kinney  was  only  her  pastor. 
Slowly  she  lived  her  life  since  then  over  again,  its  joy 
and  its  sorrow  alike  softened  in  her  tender,  brooding 
thoughts.  The  soft  whirring  sound  of  a  bird's  wings 
in  the  air  roused  her :  as  it  flew  past  the  window  she 
saw  that  it  was  one  of  the  vellow-hammers,  which  still 
built  their  nests  in  the  maple-grove  behind  the  house. 

"  Ah,"  thought  she,  "  I  suppose  it  can't  be  one  of 
the  same  birds  we  saw  that  dav.  But  it's  ffoino:  on 
errands  just  the  same.  I  wonder,  dear  Seth,  if  mine 
are  nearly  done." 

At  that  instant  a  terrible  pain  shot  through  her  left 
side  and  forced  a  sharp  cry  from  her  lips.  She  half 
rose  exclaiming,  "  Reuby,  oh,  darling  !  "and  sank  back 
m  her  chair  unconscious. 


THE  ELDER'S  WIFE.  163 

Just  as  Elder  Williams  was  concluding  the  com- 
munion service,  the  door  of  the  church  was  burst  open, 
and  old  Ike,  tottering  into  the  aisle,  cried  out  in  a 
shrill  voice :  — 

"  Mis'  Kinney's  dead  !  Mis'  Kinney's  dead  !  " 

The  scene  that  followed  could  not  be  told.  With 
flying  feet  the  whole  congregation  sped  up  the  steep  hill 
■ — Angy  Plummer  half  lifting,  half  dragging  Reuby,  and 
the  poor  grandparents  supported  on  each  side  by  strong 
men.  As  they  drew  near  the  house,  they  saw  Draxy 
apparently  sitting  by  the  open  window. 

"O  mamma  !  why  that's  mamma,"  shrieked  Reuby, 
"  she  was  sitting  just  so  when  we  came  away.  She 
isn't  dead." 

Elder  Williams  reached  the  house  first,  Hannah  met 
him  on  the  threshold,  tearless. 

"  She  dead,  sir.  She's  cold  as  ice.  She  must  ha' 
been  dead  a  long  time." 

Old  Ike  had  been  rambling  around  the  house,  and 
observing  from  the  outside  that  Draxy's  position  was 
strange,  had  compelled  Hannah  to  go  into  the  room. 

"  She  was  a  smilin'  just's  you  see  her  now,"  said 
Hannah,  ''  'n'  I  couldn't  ha'  touched  her  to  move  her 
more'n  I  could  ha'  touched  an  ano;el." 

There  are  griefs,  as  well  as  joys,  to  which  words 
offer  insult.     Draxy  was  dead  ! 

Three  days  later  they  laid  her  by  the  side  of  her 
husband,  and  the  gray-haired,  childless  old  people, 
and  the  golden-haired,  fatherless  and  motherless  boy, 
returned  together  broken-hearted  to  the  sunny  parson- 
age. 

On  the  village  a  terrible  silence,  that  could  be  felt, 


164  SAKE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

settled  down  ;  a  silence  in  which  sorrowing  men  and 
women  crept  about,  weeping  as  those  who  cannot  be 
comforted. 

Then  week  followed  after  week,  and  soon  all  things 
seemed  as  they  had  seemed  before.  But  Draxy  never 
died  to  her  people.  Her  hymns  are  still  sung  in  the 
little  lonely  church  ;  her  gospel  still  lives  in  the  very 
air  of  those  quiet  hills,  and  the  people  smile  through 
their  tears  as  they  teach  her  name  to  little  children. 


WHOSE  WIFE   WAS   SHE? 


WAS  on  my  knees  before  my  chrysanthemum- 
bed,  looking  at  each  little  round  tight  disk  of 
a  bud,  and  trying  to  believe  that  it  would  be 
a  snowy  flower  in  two  weeks.  In  two  weeks  my 
cousin  Annie  Ware  was  to  be  married :  if  my  white 
chrysanthemums  would  only  understand  and  make 
haste !  I  was  childish  enough  to  tell  them  so  ;  but 
the  childishness  came  of  love,  —  of  my  exceeding,  my 
unutterable  love  for  Annie  Ware  ;  if  flowers  have  souls, 
the  chrysanthemums  understood  me. 

A  sharp,  quick  roll  of  wheels  startled  me.  I  lifted 
my  head.  The  wheels  stopped  at  our  gate  ;  a  hurried 
step  came  down  the  broad  garden-path,  and  almost 
before  I  had  had  time  to  spring  to  my  feet.  Dr.  Fear- 
ing had  taken  both  my  hands  in  his,  had  said, — 
"  Annie  Ware  has  the  fever,"  —  had  turned,  had  gone, 
had  shut  the  garden  gate,  and  the  same  sharp  quick 
roll  of  wheels  told  that  he  was  far  on  his  way  to  the 
next  sufferer. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  stood  still  in  the  garden. 
A  miserable  sullenness  seemed  to  benumb  my  facul- 
ties.    I  repeated,  — 

"  Annie  Ware  has  the  fever."     Then  I  said,  — 


1 66  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES 

"Annie  Ware  cannot  die;  she  is  too  young,  too 
Strong,  and  we  love  her  so." 

Then  I  said  again,  — 

"  Annie  Ware  has  the  fever,"  and  all  the  time  I 
seemed  not  to  be  thinking  about  her  at  all,  but  about 
the  chrysanthemums,  whose  tops  I  still  idly  studied. 

For  weeks  a  malignant  typhus  fever  had  been  slowly 
creeping  about  in  the  lower  part  of  our  village,  in  all 
the  streets  which  had  been  under  water  in  the  spring 
freshet. 

These  streets  were  occupied  chiefly  by  laboring  peo- 
ple, either  mill-operatives,  or  shopkeepers  of  the 
poorer  class.  It  was  part  of  the  cruel  "calamity" 
of  their  "  poverty  "  that  they  could  not  afford  to  have 
homesteads  on  the  high  plateau,  which  lifted  itself 
quite  suddenly  from  the  river  meadow,  and  made  our 
village  a  by-word  of  beauty  all  through  New  Eng- 
land. 

Upon  this  plateau  were  laid  out  streets  of  great  reg- 
ularity, shaded  by  grand  elms,  many  of  which  had  been 
planted  by  hands  that  had  handled  the  ropes  of  the 
Mayflower.  Under  the  shade  of  these  elms  stood 
large  old-fashioned  houses,  in  that  sort  of  sleepy  dig- 
nity peculiar  to  old  New  England.  We  who  lived  in 
these  houses  were  also  sleepy  and  dignified.  We 
knew  that  "under  the  hill,"  as  it  was  called,  lived 
many  hundreds  of  men  and  women,  who  were  stifled 
*n  summer  for  want  of  the  breezes  which  swept  across 
cur  heights,  cold  in  winter  because  the  wall  of  our 
plateau  shut  down  upon  them  the  icy  airs  from  the 
frozen  river,  and  cut  off  the  afternoon  sun.  We  were 
sorry  for  them,  and  we  sent  them  cold  meat  and  flan- 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 67 

nels  sometimes ;  but  their  life  was  as  remote  from  our 
life  as  if  they  never  crossed  our  paths  ;  it  is  not  nec- 
essary to  go  into  large  cities  to  find  sharp  lines  drawn 
between  the  well-to-do  and  the  poverty-stricken. 
There  are,  in  many  small  villages,  "  districts  "  sepa- 
rated from  each  other  by  as  distinct  a  moral  distance 
as  divides  Fifth  Avenue  from  the  Five  Points. 

And  so  it  had  come  to  pass  that  while  for  weeks 
this  malignant  fever  had  been  creeping  about  on  the 
river  shore,  we,  in  our  clearer,  purer  air,  had  not  felt 
even  a  dread  of  it.  There  had  not  been  a  single  case 
of  it  west  of  the  high-water  mark  made  by  the  terri- 
ble freshet  of  the  previous  spring.  We  sent  brandy 
and  wine  and  beef-tea  into  the  poor,  comfortless,  grief- 
stricken  houses  ;  and  we  said  at  tea-time  that  it  was 
strange,  people  would  persist  in  living  down  under 
the  bank:  what  could  they  expect?  and  besides, 
they  were  "so  careless  about  drainage  and  ventila- 
tion." 

Now,  on  the  highest  and  loveliest  spot,  in  the  rich- 
est and  most  beautiful  house,  the  sweetest  and  fairest 
girl  of  all  our  village  lay  ill  of  the  deadly  disease. 

"  Annie  Ware  has  the  fever."  I  wondered  if  some 
fiend  were  lurking  by  my  side,  who  kept  saying  the 
words  over  and  over  in  my  ear.  With  that  indescriba- 
ble mixture  of  dulled  and  preternatur-ally  sharpened 
sense  which  often  marks  the  first  moments  of  such 
distress,  I  walked  slowly  to  my  room,  and  in  a  short 
time  had  made  all  the  necessary  preparation  for  leav- 
mg  home.  I  felt  like  a  thief  as  I  stole  slowly  down 
the  stairs,  with  my  travelling-bag  in  my  hand.  At  the 
door  I  met  my  father. 


1 68  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  Hey-day,  my  darling,  where  now  ?  Off  to  Annie's, 
as  usual  ? " 

He  had  not  heard  the  tidings  !  Should  I  tell  him  ?  I 
might  never  see  him  again  ;  only  too  well  I  knew  the 
terrible  danger  into  which  I  was  going.  But  he  might 
forbid  me. 

"  Yes,  off  to  Annie's,"  I  said  in  a  gay  tone,  and  kiss- 
ing him  sprang  down  the  steps. 

I  did  not  see  my  father  again  for  eighteen  days. 

On  the  steps  of  my  uncle's  house  I  met  old  Jane,  a 
colored  woman  who  had  nursed  Annie  Ware  when  she 
was  a  bab}',  and  who  lived  now  in  a  little  cottage  near 
by,  from  whose  door- steps  she  could  see  Annie's  win- 
dow, and  in  whose  garden  she  raised  flowers  of  all 
sorts,  solely  for  the  pleasure  of  carrying  them  to 
Annie  every  day. 

Jane's  face  was  positively  gray  with  sorrow  and  fear. 
She  looked  at  me  with  a  strange  sort  of  unsympathiz- 
ingr  hardness  in  her  eves.  She  had  never  loved  me. 
T  knew  what  she- thought.  She  was  saying  to  herself: 
"Why  not  this  one  instead  of  the  other?" 

"  O  auntie  ! "  I  said,  "  I  would  die  for  Annie  ;  you 
know  I  would." 

At  this  she  melted.  "  O  honey !  don'  ye  say  that. 
The  Lord  "  —  but  she  could  say  no  more.'  She  threw 
her  apron  up  over  her  head  and  strode  away. 

The  doors  of  the  house  stood  open.  I  walked 
through  room  after  room,  and  found  no  human  being. 
At  last,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in  the  back  part  of  the 
house,  I  came  upon  all  the  servants  huddled  together 
In  a  cowering,  weeping  group.  Flat  on  the  floor,  with 
his  face  to  the  wall,  lay  black  Caesar,  the  coachmaa 


WHOSE   WIFE    WAS  SHE?  169 

I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder.     He  jerked  away  im- 
patiently. 

"  Yer  jest  lemme  lone,  will  yer?"  he  said  in  a 
choking  voice  ;  then  lifting  up  his  head,  and  seeing  it 
was  I,  he  half  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  a  look  of  shame 
and  alarm,  and  involuntarily  carrying  his  hand  to  his 
head,  said  :  — 

"  O  miss  !  who's  gwine  to  think  yer  "  —  here  he  too 
broke  down,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  great  hands. 

I  did  not  speak,  but  the  little  group  instinctively 
opened  to  let  me  pass  up  the  stairs.  I  had  a  vague 
consciousness  that  they  said  something  as  I  turned 
into  a  little  cross  hall  which  led  to  Annie's  room ;  but 
without  attending  to  their  words  I  opened  her  door. 
ITie  room  was  empty ;  the  bed  stripped  of  clothes  j 
the  windows  wide  open.  I  sank  into  a  chair,  and 
looked  from  side  to  side.  I  was  too  late,  after  all ! 
That  was  why  none  of  the  servants  dared  speak  to 
me.  A  little  slipper  of  Annie's  lay  on  the  floor  by  the 
bed.  I  took  it  up  and  turned  it  over  and  over  in  my 
hands.  Then  I  became  conscious  that  my  Aunt  Ann 
was  speaking  to  me, —  was  calling  me  by  name,  earn- 
estly, repeatedly,  with  terror  in  her  voice. 

"  My  dear,  dear  child  ;  Helen,  Helen,  Helen,  she  is 
not  dead.  She  is  in  my  room.  Come  and  see  for 
yourself. " 

I  had  seen  my  Aunt  Ann  every  day  for  nineteen 
years,  —  I  never  knew  her  until  that  moment  j  I  never 
saw  her  real  face  until  that  moment. 

I  followed  her  slowly  through  rooms  and  passage- 
ways till  she  reached  her  own  chamber.  The  door 
was  open;  the  room  was    very  dark.     On  the  thresh- 


I/O  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

old  she  paused,  and  whispered,  ''You  must  not  be 
frightened,  darling.  She  will  not  know  you.  She  has 
not  known  any  one  for  six  hours." 

I  knelt  down  by  the  bed.  In  a  few  moments  my 
eyes  became  used  to  the  darkness,  and  I  saw  Annie's 
face  lying  motionless  on  the  farther  edge  of  the  bed, 
turned  to  the  wall.  It  was  perfectly  white  except  the 
lips,  which  were  almost  black,  and  were  swollen  and 
crusted  over  with  the  fearful  fever.  Her  beautiful  hair 
fell  in  tangled  masses,  and  half  covered  her  face. 

"  She  seems  to  be  lying  very  uncomfortably,"  said 
Aunt  Ann,  "  but  the  doctor  ordered  that  she  should 
not  be  disturbed  in  any  way." 

I  looked  at  my  aunt's  face  and  listened  to  her  voice 
in  bewilderment.  The  whole  world  had  for  years 
called  her,  and  with  apparent  justice,  "a  hard  and 
unsympathizing  woman."  No  human  being  had  ever 
seen  a  really  free  unconstrained  smile  on  her  face,  or 
heard  from  her  lips  an  impulsive  word.  When  it  was 
known  that  the  genial,  rollicking,  open-hearted  Henry 
Ware  was  to  marry  her,  everybody  shuddered.  As 
years  went  on,  everybody  who  sat  by  Henry  Ware's 
fireside,  and  was  kindled  and  made  welcome  by  his 
undiminished  and  unconquerable  cheeriness,  felt  at  the 
same  time  chilled  and  paralyzed  by  the  courteous,  un 
exceptionable  dignity  of  Mrs.  Ware.  Even  I,  having 
the  freedom  of  a  daughter  in  their  house,  and  loving 
my  uncle  hardly  less  than  I  loved  my  father,  had 
never  once  supposed  that  anybody  could  love  Aunt 
Ann,  or  that  she  would  permit  it.  I  always  felt  a  lit- 
tle terror  when  I  saw  Annie  kiss  her,  or  my  uncle 
put    his   arm   around  her      My   oVvn    loving,   caress- 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  I/I 

ing,  over-flowing  mother  had  given  me  by  inheritance, 
and  had  taught  me  by  example,  a  type  of  love  which 
knew  no  life  without  expression.  And  very  well  I 
knew  that  that  sweet  mother  of  mine,  whom  the  whole 
town  loved,  and  who  herself  loved  the  whole  world, 
seemed  always  turned  into  stone  by  the  simple  pres- 
ence of  Aunt  Ann. 

And  now  Aunt  Ann  was  sitting  on  the  floor  by  my  side, 
dinging  to  my  hand,  resting  my  head  on  her  bosom, 
and,  as  I  felt  instantly  and  instinctively,  revealing  in 
her  every  tone,  look,  word,  such  intensity  and  pas- 
sionateness  of  feeling  as  I  had  never  in  my  whole  life 
seen  before.  I  saw  then  that  she  had  always  held  me 
side  by  side  with  her  own  child  in  her  heart,  and 
that  she  knew  the  rare  quality  of  the  love  I  had  for 
Annie. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  let  you  come  here,"  she  said, 
more  as  if  speaking  to  herself  than  to  me  j  "  they, 
too,  have  but  one." 

"  But,  Aunt  Ann,  you  could  not  have  kept  me  out," 
I  whispered. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  that,  my  child,"  she  replied  ;  "  but 
no  one  else  would  know  it." 

From  that  moment  there  was  between  my  Aunt  Ann 
and  me  a  subtle  bond  which  partook  of  all  the  holiest 
mysteries  of  love.  There  were  both  motheihood  and 
the  love  of  lovers  in  my  love  for  Annie.  Annie's 
mother  felt  them,  and  was  willing  to  have  her  own 
motherhood  added  to  and  ministered  to  by  them. 
From  that  moment  I  believe  not  even  her  husband 
seemed  so  near  to  her  in  her  relation  with  her  child 
is  I. 


lyz  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

I  will  not  write  out  the  record  of  the  next  two 
weeks.  They  seemed,  as  they  passed,  a  thousand 
years ;  and  yet,  in  looking  back  on  them,  they  seem 
only  like  one  terrible  breathless  night.  My  aunt  and 
I  alone  did  all  that  was  done  for  Annie.  There  were 
whole  days  and  whole  nights  during  which  she  talked 
incessantly,  sometimes  with  such  subtle  semblance  of 
her  own  sweet  self  that  we  could  hardly  believe  she 
did  not  know  what  she  said  ;  sometimes  with  such 
wild  ravings  that  we  shook  in  terror,  and  could  not 
look  at  her  nor  at  each  other.  There  were  other  days 
and  nights  through  which  she  lay  in  a  sleep,  which 
seemed  no  more  like  real  sleep  than  the  shrill  voice 
of  her  ravings  had  seemed  like  her  real  voice.  These 
were  most  fearful  of  all.  Through  all  these  days  and 
nights,  two  men  with  white  faces  and  folded  arms 
walked  up  and  down  in  the  rooms  below,  or  crouched 
on  the  thresholds  of  our  doors,  listening  for  sign  or 
word  from  us.  One  was  Annie's  father,  and  the  other 
was  her  lover,  George  Ware.  He  was  her  second 
cousin,  fifteen  years  older  than  she,  and  had  loved 
her  since  the  day  she  was  one  year  old,  when  at  the 
ceremony  of  her  christening,  he,  a  proud  shy  boy  of 
sixteen,  had  been  allowed  to  carry  her  up-stairs  with 
her  sweet  name  resting  fresh  and  new  on  her  little 
dewy  forehead.  Ah,  seldom  does  such  love  spring 
and  grow  and  blaze  on  this  earth  as  had  warmed  the 
very  air  around  Annie  from  the  moment  of  her  birth. 
George  Ware  was  a  man  of  rare  strength,  as  this  love 
showed  ;  and  with  just  such  faithfulness  as  his  faith- 
fulness to  Annie,  he  had  loved  and  cared  for  his 
mother,  who    had    been    for    twenty   years  a  widow. 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 73 

They  lived  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  in  a  small 
house  almost  buried  in  the  heart  of  a  pine  wood.  The 
wood  was  threaded  in  all  directions  by  miles  of  narrow 
paths  which  shone  in  the  shaded  sunlight  as  if  they 
were  satin-floored.  For  nineteen  years  it  had  been 
George  Ware's  joy  to  roam  these  paths  with  his  cousin 
Annie  ;  first,  the  baby  whom  he  drew  in  her  wicker 
wagon  ;  next,  the  wayward  little  child  who  walked  with 
stumbling  steps  and  clung  to  his  finger ;  next,  the 
gay  school-girl  who  brought  all  her  perplexities  and 
all  her  joys  to  be  confided  to  him  under  the  pines; 
next,  the  shyer  and  more  silent  maiden  who  came 
less  often,  but  lingered  helplessly  until  twilight  made 
the  fragrant  aisles  solemn  and  dim  as  cloisters ;  at 
last,  the  radiant,  the  child-like  woman,  the  promised 
wife  ! 

No  winter  could  set  a  barrier  across  these  pine- 
wood  paths.  When  the  whole  country  about  lay 
blocked  and  drifted,  and  half  buried  with  snow,  all 
these  spicy  foot-roads  were  kept  clear  and  level,  and 
ready  for  Annie's  feet.  Whole  days  of  George  Ware's 
strength  went  into  the  work  and  the  joy  of  doing  this. 
In  open  spaces  where  the  snow  had  drifted  deep,  he 
wrought  it  into  solid  walls  almost  as  high  on  either 
hand  as  Annie's  head.  In  dark  nooks,  where  the 
spreading  pines  and  hemlocks  lay  low  and  wide,  he 
tossed  the  snow  into  fantastic  and  weird  masses  on 
the  right  and  left,  and  cleared  great  spaces  where  he 
knew  the  partridge-berry  would  be  ready  with  a  tiny 
scarlet  glow  to  light  up  the  spot. 

This  was  George  Ware's  wooing.  It  never  stepped 
into   the   glare,   the   contention  of  profaner   air.     It 


174  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

was  not  a  seeking,  a  finding,  a  conquest ;  but  a  slow, 
sure  growth  of  possession,  which  had  as  eternal  foun- 
dation and  seemed  as  eternally  safe  as  the  results  of 
organic  law. 

George's  picture  hung  in  Annie's  room,  opposite  the 
foot  of  her  bed.  Opposite  the  foot  of  the  bed  in  her 
mothers  room  hung  a  large  engraving  of  the  Sistine 
Madonna.  I  fancied  that  in  Annie's  quieter  moments 
her  eyes  rested  with  a  troubled  look  upon  this  picture, 
and  one  day,  when  she  was  in  a  deep  sleep,  I  ex- 
changed the  pictures.  I  felt  as  if  even  lifeless  canvas 
which  had  George's  face  painted  upon  it,  might  work 
her  good. 

At  last  there  came  a  night,  —  they  said  it  was  the 
fourteenth,  but  the  words  conveyed  no  meaning  to 
me,  —  there  came  a  night  when  Dr.  Fearing,  who  had 
been  sitting  by  Annie's  bed  for  two  hours,  watch- 
ing her  every  breath,  sprang  suddenly  to  his  feet,  and 
beckoned  to  my  aunt  and  me  to  follow  him  into  the 
next  room.  He  shut  the  door,  walked  very  swiftly  up 
to  us,  looked  first  into  her  face  then  into  mine ;  then 
felt  her  pulse,  and  then  mine,  and  then  turning  to 
me,  said,  — 

"  It  will  have  to  be  you."  We  looked  at  him  in  sud- 
den terror.  The  tears  were  rolling  down  his  wrinkled 
cheeks. 

"What  is  it,  William  ?  "  gasped  Aunt  Ann. 

"  It  will  have  to  be  you,"  he  went  on,  looking  me  in 
the  face,  and  taking  no  notice  of  her  question  ;  "  your 
pulse  can  be  trusted.  There  has  been  a  change. 
When  Annie  wakes  out  of  this  sleep  she  will  know 
fou.     It  may  be  in  two  hours,  and  it  may  not  be  for 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 75 

six.     But  if  in  that  first  moment  she  is  alar^ned,  or 

agitated  in  any  way,  she  will  die." 

"  O  William,  let  me  stay.  I  will  be  calm,"  moaned 
my  poor  aunt. 

Then  I  observed,  for  the  first  time,  that  she  had 
called  him  "  William."  And  then,  for  the  first  and 
last  time,  I  heard  Dr.  Fearing  call  my  Aunt  Ann 
**  darling,"  and  I  remembered  in  that  instant  that  it 
had  been  said  once  in  my  hearing,  that  it  was  because 
of  his  love  for  Mrs.  Henry  Ware  that  Dr.  William 
Fearing  had  lived  and  would  die  a  lonely  man. 

"  Darling,"  he  said,  and  put  one  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  "  you  would  kill  your  child.  I  forbid  you 
to  cross  the  threshold  of  that  room  till  I  come  back. 
You  will  thank  me  to-morrow.  Can  you  not  trust  me, 
Ann .''  "  and  he  looked  down  from  his  full  height,  this 
brave  old  man,  into  the  face  of  the  woman  he  had 
loved,  with  a  look  like  the  look  of  one  who  dies  to 
save  another.  It  was  but  for  one  second,  and  then  he 
was  again  the  physician,  and  turning  to  me,  went  on, 
"  I  have  another  patient  to  whom  I  must  instantly  go, 
and  whom  I  may  not  be  able  to  leave  for  hours.  You 
can  do  all  that  I  would  do,  —  I  believe,"  —  then  he 
felt  my  pulse  again,  and  nodding  his  head  with  a  sort 
of  grim  professional  satisfaction,  which  no  amount  of 
emotion  could  wholly  divert  from  its  delight  in  the 
steady  nerves  and  undisturbed  currents  of  a  healthy 
body  — resumed,  "You  have  but  one  thing  to  do: 
when  she  wakes,  look  perfectly  composed  ;  if  she 
speaks,  answer  her  in  a  perfectly  natural  voice  ;  give 
her  two  drops  of  this  medicine,  and  tell  her  to  go 
to  sleep  again.     If  you  do  this,  she  will  fall  asleep 


1/6  SAKE  HOLnrS  STORIES. 

at  once.     If  you  show  the  least  agitation,  she  may 
die,  —  probably  will !  "  —  and  Dr.  Fearing  was  gone. 

My  aunt  sat  silently  weeping.  I  kissed  her  without 
speaking,  and  went  back  to  my  chair  by  Annie's  bed. 
I  dropped  the  two  drops  of  medicine  into  a  spoon, 
and  propped  the  spoon  carefully  on  a  little  silver  tray, 
so  that  I  could  reach  it  instantly.  It  was  just  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Hour  after  hour  passed.  I 
could  not  hear  Annie's  breath.  My  own  dinned  in 
my  ears  like  the  whir  of  mills.  A  terror  such  as  I 
can  never  describe  took  possession  of  me.  What  if 
I  were  to  kill  Annie?  How  could  I  look  composed? 
speak  naturally  ?  What  would  she  say  ?  If  I  could 
but  know  and  have  my  answer  ready  ! 

I  firmly  believe  that  the  dawn  of  light  saved  my 
senses  and  Annie's  life.  When  the  first  red  beam  shot 
through  the  blinds  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
tears  came  into  my  eyes.  I  felt  as  if  angels  were 
watching  outside.  A  tiny  sunbeam  crept  between 
the  slats  and  fell  on  the  carpet.  It  was  no  more  than 
a  hair's  breadth,  but  it  was  companionship  to  me. 
Slowl}^,  steadily  it  came  towards  me.  I  forgot  all  else 
in  watching  it.  To  this  day  I  cannot  see  a  slow-moving 
sunbeam  on  a  crimson  floor  without  a  shudder.  The 
clock  struck  six,  seven,  eight,  nine.  The  bells  rang  for 
schools  ;  the  distant  hum  of  the  town  began.  Still 
there  was  no  stir,  no  symptom  of  life,  in  the  colorless 
face  on  the  pillow.  The  sunbeam  had  crept  nearly  to 
my  feet.  Involuntarily  I  lifted  my  right  foot  and 
stretched  it  out  to  meet  the  golden  messenger.  Had 
I  dared  to  move  I  should  have  knelt  and  reached 
my   hand  to   it   instead.       Perhaps    even    the    slight 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SUE?  lyj 

motion  I  did  make,  hastened  Annie's  waking,  for  at 
that  instant  she  turned  her  head  uneasily  on  the  pillow 
and  opened  her  eyes.  I  saw  that  she  knew  me.  I 
wondered  how  I  could  have  distrusted  my  own  strength 
to  meet  her  look.  I  smiled  as  if  we  were  at  play 
together,  and  said,  — 

"  Good  morning,  dear." 

She  smiled  languidly  and  said,  "  How  came  I  in 
mamma's  bed  ? " 

I  said,  quietly,  "  Take  this  medicine,  darling  ; "  and 
almost  before  the  drops  had  passed  her  lips  her  eyes 
closed,  and  she  had  fallen  asleep  again. 

When  Dr.  Fearing  came  into  the  room  at  noon,  he 
gave  one  swift,  anxious  glance  at  her  face,  and  then 
fell  on  his  knees  and  folded  his  face  in  his  hands.  I 
knew  that  Annie  was  safe. 

Then  he  went  into  the  next  room,  silently  took  Aunt 
Ann  by  the  hand,  and  leading  her  back  to  Annie's  bed- 
side, pointed  to  the  little  beads  of  moisture  on  her 
forehead  and  said,  — 

"  Saved  ! " 

The  revulsion  was  too  much  for  the  poor  mother's 
heart.  She  sank  to  the  floor.  He  lifted  her  in  his 
arms  and  carried  her  out,  and  for  the  rest  of  that  day 
my  Aunt  Ann,  that  "  hard  and  unsympathizing  woman," 
passed  from  one  strange  fainting-fit  into  another,  until 
we  were  in  almost  as  great  fear  for  her  life  as  we  had 
been  for  Annie's. 

At  twilight  Annie  roused  from  her  sleep  again. 
She  was  perfectly  tranquil,  but  too  weak  to  lift  even 
her  little  hand,  which  had  grown  so  thin  and  so  wrink- 
»ed  that  it  looked  like  a  wilted  white  flower  lying  on 
\he  white  counterpane. 


1^8  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Hour  by  hour  she  gained  strength  under  the  power- 
ful restoratives  which  were  used,  and  still  more  from 
the  wonderful  elasticity  of  her  temperament.  From 
the  very  first  day,  however,  an  indefinable  terror  of 
misgiving  seized  me  as  often  as  I  heard  her  voice  or 
looked  into  her  eyes.  In  vain  I  said  to  myself:  "It  is 
the  weakness  after  such  terrible  illness  ;  "  "  it  is  only 
natural."  I  felt  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  it  was 
more. 

On  the  fourth  day  she  said  suddenly,  looking  up  at 
the  picture  of  George  Ware,  — 

*^  Why  !  Why  is  Cousin  George's  picture  in  here  ? 
Where  is  the  Madonna  ? 

I  replied  :  "  I  moved  it  in  here,  dear,  for  you.  I 
thought  you  would  like  it." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  like  the  Madonna  best :  the 
dear  little  baby !  Please  carry  George  back  into  my 
room  where  he  belongs." 

My  heart  stood  still  with  terror.  She  had  never 
called  George  Ware  her  cousin  since  their  engagement. 
She  especially  disliked  any  allusion  to  their  relation- 
ship. This  was  her  first  mention  of  his  name,  and  it 
was  in  all  respects  just  what  it  would  have  been  a  year 
before.  Dr.  Fearing  had  forbidden  us  to  allude  to  him, 
or  to  her  wedding-day,  or,  in  fact,  to  any  subject  cal- 
culated to  arouse  new  trains  of  thought  in  her  mind. 
I  wondered  afterward  thatw^e  did  not  understand  from 
the  first  how  he  had  feared  that  her  brain  might  not 
fully  recover  itself,  as  the  rest  of  her  exquisitely 
organized  body  seemed  fast  doing. 

Day  after  day  passed.  Annie  could  sit  up ;  could 
«<ralk  about  her  room ;  she  gained  in  flesh  and  color 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  179 

and  strength  so  rapidly  that  it  was  a  marvel.  She  was 
gentle  and  gay  and  loving ;  her  old  rare,  sweet  self  in 
every  little  way  and  trait  and  expression  ;  not  a  look, 
not  a  smile,  not  a  tone  was  wanting  j  but  it  was  the 
Annie  of  last  year,  and  not  of  this.  She  made  no 
allusion  to  her  wedding,  the  day  for  which  had  now 
passed.  She  did  not  ask  for  George.  The  whole 
year  had  dropped  out  of  her  memory ;  part  of  her 
brain  was  still  diseased.  No  human  touch  could  ven- 
ture to  deal  with  it  without  the  risk  of  the  most  terrible 
consequences. 

Dr.  Fearing's  face  grew  day  by  day  more  and  more 
anxious ;  he  was  baffled  ;  he  was  afraid.  He  con- 
sulted the  most  eminent  physicians  who  had  had  ex- 
perience in  diseases  of  the  brain.  They  all  counseled 
patience,  and  advised  against  any  attempt  to  hasten 
her  recollections  upon  any  point ;  they  all  had  known 
similar  cases,  but  never  one  so  sharply  defined  or  so 
painful  as  this.  Still  they  were  unanimous  in  advis- 
ing that  nothing  should  be  said  to  startle  her ;  that  all 
must  be  trusted  to  time. 

Through  these  terrible  days  George  Ware  was 
braver  than  any  one  else.  His  faith  in  the  absolute- 
ness of  his  hold  on  Annie  was  too  great  to  be  disturbed. 
He  was  by  nature  as  patient  as  he  was  resolute.  He 
had  not  wooed  his  wife  for  eighteen  years  to  lose  her 
now  in  any  way  except  by  death,  he  thought.  He  com- 
forted us  all. 

"  Do  be  brave,  sweet  mother  of  Annie,"  he  used  to 
gay  to  my  poor  Aunt  Ann  ;  "all  will  be  well.  It  is 
nothing  to  me  to  wait  another  year,  after  having  waited 
ill  these.  It  is  not  even  hard  for  me  to  go  without 
seeing  her,  if  that  is  best." 


l80  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES 

Nevertheless^  his  face  grew  thin  and  his  eye  heavy 
and  fhis  form  bent,  as  week  after  week  passed,  and  he 
came  daily  to  the  house,  only  to  be  told  the  same 
weary  thing,  that  Annie  had  not  asked  for  him.  The 
physicians  had  said  that  it  would  be  better  that  she 
should  not  see  him  until  she  had  of  her  own  accord 
mentioned  his  name.  Her  nerves  were  still  in  such  a 
state  that  any  surprise  threw  her  into  palpitation  and 
alarm  which  did  not  pass  off  for  hours.  No  human 
being  could  tell  how  great  might  be  the  shock  of  see- 
ing his  face ;  how  much  it  might  recall  to  her ;  and 
whether,  if  it  recalled  all,  she  could  bear  it.  From  the 
outset  George  believed  the  physicians  were  wrong  in 
this ;  but  he  dared  not  urge  his  instinct  against  their 
knowledge  ;  and  he  was  patient  of  nature,  and  so  the 
days  went  on,  on,  on  ;  and  there  was  no  change  except 
that  Annie  grew  steadily  better  and  our  hearts  grew 
steadily  sicker  and  sicker  until  we  almost  looked  back 
with  longing  on  the  days  when  we  feared  she  would 
die.  And  yet  in  every  respect,  except  the  memory  of 
her  lover,  Annie  was  the  same  as  before.  The  closest 
scrutiny  could  discover  no  other  change  in  her,  except 
perhaps  that  she  seemed  even  gayer  than  she  used 
to  seem,  and  a  shade  less  tender,  but  this  also  was  as 
she  had  been  before  she  had  promised  to  be  George 
Ware's  wife. 

One  morning  George  brought  me  a  small  bunch  of 
lovely  wild  things  from  the  pine  woods,  Tiarella 
leaves  just  tipped  with  claret  color  by  the  early  frosis, 
sprays  of  Linnea,  two  or  three  tiny  white  maiden's 
hair  ferns,  all  tied  by  a  knot  of  patridge-berry  vines 
thick-set  with  scarlet  berries. 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS   SHE?  I  Si 

"  Give  these  to  Annie  for  me,  will  you,clear  Helen  ?  " 
he  said,  "  and  observe  very  carefully  how  she  is  af- 
fected by  them." 

I  remembered  that  it  was  just  one  year  ago  that 
day,  that  he  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  I 
trembled  to  think  of  what  hidden  meanings  I  might 
be  messenger  in  carrying  her  this  silent  token.  But  I 
too  felt,  as  George  did,  that  she  was  drifting  farther 
and  farther  away  from  the  memories  v/e  desired  she 
should  regain  ;  and  that  no  physician's  knowledge 
could  be  so  true  as  love's  instinct ;  and  I  asked  no 
counsel  of  any  one,  but  went  swiftly  to  Annie  with  the 
leaves  in  my  hand. 

"  O  you  darling  !  How  perfectly  lovely,"  she  ex- 
claimed with  a  laugh  of  delight.  "  Why  these  must 
have  come  from  George's  woods.  Have  you  been  up 
there  ?  " 

"No,  dear,"  I  said,  "  George  brought  them  for  you, 
this  morning." 

"  Oh,  the  good  darling  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Is  it 
decided  about  his  going  to  India  ?  " 

I  could  not  repress  a  little  cry  of  anguish  and  terror. 
A  year  before,  there  had  been  a  plan  for  his  going  out 
to  India  on  a  mercantile  venture,  which  promised  great 
profit.  It  had  been  given  up,  partly  because  his 
mother  felt  that  she  could  not  live  without  him,  partly 
because  he  felt  that  he  could  not  longer  live  without 
Annie 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ? "  she  said,  in  her  softest,  most 
sympathizing  voice,  with  a  little  flush  of  alarm  on  her 
pale  cheek  ;  "  what  hurt  you  ?  are  you  ill  ?  Oh,  my 
poor  Helen,  you  are  all  worn  out  with  nursing  me.  I 
will  nurse  you  presently." 


1 82  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  Only  a  little  twinge  of  my  old  neuralgia,  dear,"  I 
said  faintly;  "these  autumn  winds  are  setting  it  at 
work  again." 

She  looked  anxiously  at  me  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
then  began  to  untie  the  bunch  of  leaves,  and  spread 
out  the  long  vines  on  the  bed. 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  had  some  moss,"  she  said. 

I  ran  to  the  green-house  and  brought  her  handfuls 
of  beautiful  dripping  mosses  from  the  rocks  in  the 
fernery.  She  filled  a  saucer  with  them,  putting  the 
Tiarella  leaves  all  round  the  rim,  and  winding  the 
Linnea  vines  in  and  out  as  they  grow  in  the  woods. 
Then  she  leaned  back  on  her  pillows  and  began  break- 
ing the  partridge-berry  vines  into  short  bits,  each  with 
a  scarlet  berry  on  it.  These  she  set  upright  in  the 
moss,  changing  and  rearranging  them  so  often  that 
I  wondered  what  could  be  her  purpose,  and  leaned 
forward  to  see. 

"No,  no,"  she  said  playfully,  pushing  me  back, 
"  not  till  it  is  done." 

Presently  she  said,  "  Now  look  !  " 

I  looked  and  saw  a  perfect,  beautifully  formed  G 
made  by  the  scarlet  berries  on  the  green  moss. 

"There,"  she  said,  "I'll  send  that  back  to  George, 
to  show  him  that  I  have  found  him  in  the  berries  ;  or, 
no,"  she  added,  "we'll keep  it  till  becomes  to  see  me. 
The  doctor  said  I  could  be  carried  down-stairs  to- 
morrow, and  then  I  shall  begin  to  *  receive,' "  and  she 
laughed  a  gay  little  laugh,  and  sank  back  tired. 

That  moment  stands  out  in  my  memory  as  the  sad- 
dest, hardest  one  of  all.  I  think  at  that  moment  hope 
died  in  my  heart. 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 83 

When  I  told  George  of  this,  and  showed  him  the 
saucer  of  moss — for  she  had  ordered  it  to  be  set  on 
the  drawing-room  table,  saying,  "It  is  too  pretty  to 
stay  up  here  with  bottles  and  invalids," — he  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands  for  many  minutes.  When  he 
lifted  it,  he  looked  me  steadily  in  the  eye,  and  said,  — 

"  She  has  utterly  forgotten  this  whole  year.  But  I 
will  win  her  again." 

Then  he  knelt  down  and  kissed  every  little  leaf  and 
berry  which  her  hands  had  touched,  and  went  away 
without  speaking  another  word. 

It  was  decided  after  this  that  it  could  do  no  harm 
for  him  to  see  her.  Indeed,  he  now  demanded  it. 
His  resolution  was  taken. 

"  You  need  not  fear,"  he  said  to  Dr.  Fearing,  "  that 
I  shall  agitate  her  by  approaching  her  as  if  she  were 
my  own.     She  is  not  my  own.     But  she  will  be  !  " 

We  all  sat  with  trembling  hands  and  beating  hearts 
as  the  hour  approached  at  which  we  knew  the  experi- 
ment was  to  be  made. 

Annie  had  been  carried  down-stairs,  and  laid  upon  a 
lounge  in  the  western  bay-window  of  the  library.  The 
lounge  was  covered  with  dark  green  damask.  Old 
CjEsar  had  so  implored  to  be  allowed  to  carry  her 
down,  that  Annie  had  insisted  that  he  should  be 
gratified  ]  and  she  went  down  as  she  had  so  often  done 
in  her  childhood,  with  her  soft  white  face  lying  close 
to  his  shining  black  one. 

As  he  put  her  down,  in  her  rose-colored  wrapper, 
on  the  dark  green  damask,  he  knelt  before  her  and 
burst  out  in  spite  of  himself,  into  a  sort  of  wild  chant 
of  thanksgiving  ;  but  as  we  entered  the  door  he  sprang 


1 84  SAKE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

ap  ashamed,  and  turning  to  Aunt  Ann,  said :  "  Beg 
pardon,  missis,  but  this  rose  yere  was  too  much  pink 
rose  for  old  Caesar  !  " 

It  was  "  too  much  pink  rose  "  for  any  human  eyes 
to  see  unmoved.  We  all  cried  :  and  Annie  herself 
shed  a  few  tears,  but  finally  helped  us  all  by  saying 

gayly,  — 

"  You'll  make  me  ill  again  if  you  all  go  on  like  this. 
I  hate  people  that  cry." 

No  stranger's  eye  would  have  detected  the  thou- 
sandth part  of  a  second's  pause  which  George  Ware's 
feet  made  on  the  threshold  of  that  room  when  his  eyes 
first  saw  Annie.  Before  the  second  had  ended  he  was 
simply  the  eager,  glad,  aifectionate  cousin,  and  had 
taken  calmly  and  lovingly  the  child's  kiss  which  Annie 
gave  him  as  she  had  given  it  every  day  of  her  life. 

We  could  not  speak.  My  uncle  tried  to  read  his 
newspaper  ;  my  aunt's  hands  shook  in  their  pretense 
of  sewing;  I  threw  myself  on  the  floor  at  the  foot  of 
Annie's  lounge  and  hid  my  face  in  its  cushions. 

But  George  Ware's  brave  voice  went  steadily  on. 
Annie's  sweet  glad  tones,  weak  and  low,  but  still 
sweeter  than  any  other  tones  I  ever  heard,  chimed  in 
and  out  like  fairy  bells  from  upper  air.  More  than 
an  hour  passed.  I  do  not  know  one  word  that  we 
said. 

Then  George  rose,  saying :  "  I  must  not  tire  you, 
little  Annie,  so  I  am  going  now." 

"  Will  you  come  again  to-morrow  ? "  she  asked  as 
simply  as  a  little  child. 

"  Yes,  dear,  if  you  are  not  the  worse  for  this,"  he  re- 
olied,  and  kissed  her  forehead  and  walked  very  quickly 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 85 

away  without  looking  back.  I  followed  him  instantly 
into  the  hall,  for  I  had  seen  that  in  his  face  which  had 
made  me  fear  that,  strong  man  as  he  was,  he  would 
fall.  I  found  him  sitting  on  the  lowest  step  of  the 
staircase,  just  outside  the  door. 

"  My  God,  Helen,"  he  gasped,  "  it  isn't  only  this  last 
year  she  has  forgotten.     She  has  gone  back  five  years." 

"  Oh  no,  dear  George,"  I  said  ;  "  you  are  mistaken. 
She  remembers  everything  up  to  a  year  ago.  You 
know  she  remembered  about  your  going  to  India." 

"That  is  nothing,"  he  said  impatiently.  "You 
can't  any  of  you,  see  vi'hat  I  mean,  I  suppose.  But  I 
tell  you  she  has  forgotten  five  years  of  me.  She  is  to 
me  just  as  she  was  when  she  was  fourteen.  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  the  face  and  voice  and  touch  of 
each  day  of  my  darling's  life  ?  oh,  my  God  !  my  God  ! " 
and  he  sank  down  on  the  stair  again  in  a  silence  which 
was  worse  than  groans.  I  left  him  there  and  went 
back  to  Annie. 

"  How  old  Cousin  George  looks,"  she  was  saying, 
as  I  entered  the  room  ;  "  I  didn't  remember  that  he 
was  so  old.  Why,  he  looks  as  old  as  you  do,  sweet 
papa.  But  then/' reflectively,  "after  all,  he  is  pretty 
old.  He  is  fifteen  years  older  than  I  am  —  and  I  am 
nineteen:  thirty-four!  that  is  old,  is  it  not  papa?" 
said  she,  half  petulantly.  "  Why  don't  you  speak,  any 
of  you  ? " 

"  You  are  getting  too  tired,  my  darling,"  said  her 
father,  "  and  now  I  shall  carry  you  up-stairs." 

After  Annie  was  asleep,  my  Aunt  Ann  and  I  sat 
for  hours  in  the  library,  going  over  and  over  and  over, 
with  weary  hopelessness,  all  her  words  and  looks,  and 


r86  SAXE  HOLMS  STORIES, 

trying  to  comfort  each  other.  I  think  each  knew  the 
utter  despair  of  the  other's  heart. 

From  this  time  George  came  and  went  with  all  his 
old  familiarity :  not  a  day  passed  without  his  seeing 
Annie,  and  planning  something  for  her  amusement  or 
pleasure.  Not  a  day  passed  without  her  showing  in 
many  ways  that  he  made  a  large  part  of  her  life,  was 
really  a  central  interest  in  it.  Even  to  us  who  knew 
the  sad  truth,  and  who  looked  on  with  intentness  and 
anxiety  hardly  less  than  those  wdth  which  we  had 
watched  her  sick-bed  weeks  before  —  even  to  us  it 
seemed  many  times  as  if  all  must  be  right.  No 
stranger  but  would  believe  them  lovers  ;  not  a  servant 
in  the  house  dreamed  but  that  Miss  Annie  was  still 
looking  forward  to  her  wedding.  '  They  had  all  been 
forbidden  to  allude  to  it,  but  they  supposed  it  was 
only  on  account  of  her  weakness  and  excitability. 

But  every  day  the  shadow  deepened  on  George 
Ware's  face.  I  could  see,  though  he  would  not  admit 
it,  that  the  same  despair  which  filled  my  soul  was 
settling  down  upon  his.  Dr.  Fearing,  too,  who  came 
and  spent  long  evenings  with  us,  and  cautiously 
watched  Annie's  ever}^  tone  and  look,  grew  more  and 

ifiore  uneasy.     Dr. ,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 

physicians  of  the  insane,  in  the  country,  was  invited  to 
spend  a  few  days  in  the  house.  He  was  presented  to 
Annie  as  an  old  friend  of  her  father's,  and  won  at 
once  her  whole  confidence  and  regard.  For  four  days 
he  studied  her  case,  and  frankly  owned  himself  bafiied, 
and  unable  to  suggest  any  measure  except  the  patient 
waiting  which  was  killing  us  all. 

To  tell  this  frail  and  excitable  girl,  who  had   more 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 8/ 

than  once  fainted  at  a  sudden  noise,  that  this  man 
whom  she  regarded  only  as  her  loving  cousin  had  been 
her  promised  husband—  and  that  having  been  within 
two  weeks  of  her  wedding-day,  she  had  now  utterly 
forgotten  it,  and  all  connected  with  it—  this  would  be 
too  fearful  a  risk.  It  might  deprive  her  forever  of  her 
reason. 

Otherwise,  she  seemed  in  every  respect,  even  in  the 
smallest  particular,  herself.  She  recollected  her 
music,  her  studies,  her  friends.  She  was  anxious  to 
resume  her  old  life  at  all  points.  Every  day  she  made 
allusions  to  old  plans  or  incidents.  She  had  forgotten 
absolutely  nothing  excepting  the  loverhood  of  her 
lover.  Every  day  she  grew  stronger,  and  became 
more  and  more  beautiful.  There  was  a  slight  under- 
current of  arch  mischievousness  and  half  petulance 
which  she  had  never  had  before,  and  which,  added  to 
her  sweet  sympathetic  atmosphere,  made  her  inde- 
scribably charming.  As  she  grew  stronger  she  frol- 
icked with  every  human  being  and  every  living  thing. 
When  the  spring  first  opened  and  she  could  be  out  of 
doors,  she  seemed  more  like  a  divine  mixture  of  Ariel 
and  Puck  than  like  a  mortal  maiden. 

I  found  her  one  day  lying  at  full  length  on  the 
threshold  of  the  greenhouse.  Twenty  great  azaleas 
were  in  full  bloom  on  the  shelves  —  white,  pink,  crim- 
son. She  had  gathered  handfuls  of  the  fallen  blos- 
soms, and  was  making  her  gray  kitten,  which  was  as 
intelligent  and  as  well  trained  as  a  dog,  jump  into  the 
air  to  catch  them  as  she  tossed  them  up.  I  sat  down 
yw  the  grass  outside  and  watched  her  silently. 
"  Oh,  you  sober  old  Helen,"  she  said,  ''you'll  be  an 


1 88  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Dvvl  for  a  thousand  years  after  you  die  !  Why  can't  you 
caper  a  little  ?     You  don't  know  how  nice  it  is." 

Just  then  George  came  slowly  walking  down  the 
garden  path,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  his  head 
bent  forward,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

He  did  not  see  us.     Annie  exclaimed,  — 

"  There's  Cousin  George,  too !  Look  at  him ! 
Wouldn't  you  think  he  had  just  heard  he  was  to  be 
executed  at  twelve  to-day  !  I  don't  see  what  ails  every- 
body." 

"  George,  George,"  she  called,  "  come  here.  For 
how  many  years  are  you  sentenced,  dear,  and  how 
could  you  have  been  so  silly  as  to  be  found  out  ? " 
And  then  she  burst  into  a  peal  of  the  most  delicious 
laughter  at  his  bewildered  look. 

"  I  don't  know,  darling,  for  how  many  years  I  am 
sentenced.  We  none  of  us  know,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
which  was  sadder  than  he  meant  it  should  be,  and 
sobered  her  loving  heart  instantly.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  threw  both  her  arms  around  his  right  arm,  a 
pretty  trick  she  had  kept  from  her  babyhood,  and 
said,  — 

"  Oh  you  dear,  good  darling,  does  anything  really 
trouble  you  ?  How  heartless  I  am.  But  you  don't 
knov*^  how  it  feels  to  have  been  so  awfully  ill,  and  then 
to  get  well  again.  It  makes  one  feel  all  body  and  no 
soul ;  but  I  have  soul  enough  to  love  you  all  dearly, 
you  know  I  have  ;  and  I  won't  have  you  troubled ; 
tell  me  what  it  is  this  minute  ;  "  and  she  looked  at  him 
with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

One  wonders  often  if  there  be  any  limit  to  human 
endurance.     If  there  be,  who  can  say  he  has  reached 


WHOSE   WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 89 

it  ?  Each  year  we  find  that  the  thing  which  we  thought 
had  taken  our  last  strength,  has  left  us  with  strength 
enough  to  bear  a  harder  thing.  It  seemed  so  with 
such  scenes  as  this,  in  those  sunny  spring  days  when 
Annie  Ware  first  went  out  into  life  again.  Each  day 
r  said,  *'  There  can  never  be  another  moment  quite  so 
hard  to  meet  as  this !  "  and  the  next  day  there  came  a 
moment  which  made  me  forget  the  one  which  had 
gone  before. 

It  was  an  ill  fortune  which  just  at  this  time  made  it 
imperatively  necessary  for  George  to  go  to  the  West 
for  three  months.  He  had  no  choice.  His  mother's 
whole  property  was  at  stake.  No  one  but  he  could 
save  it ;  it  was  not  certain  that  he  could.  His  last 
words  to  me  were,  — 

"  I  trust  more  in  you,  Helen,  than  in  any  other  hu- 
man being.  Keep  my  name  constantly  in  her 
thought ;  write  me  everything  which  you  w^ould  tell 
me  if  I  were  here." 

It  had  become  necessary  now  to  tell  the  sad  story 
of  the  result  of  Annie's  illness  to  all  those  friends 
who  would  be  likely  to  speak  to  her  of  her  marriage. 
The  whole  town  knew  what  shadow  rested  on  our 
hearts  ;  and  yet,  as  week  after  w^eek  went  by,  and  the 
gay,  sweet,  winning,  beautiful  girl  moved  about  among 
people  again  in  her  old  way,  people  began  to  say  more 
and  more  that  it  was,  after  all,  very  foolish  for  Annie 
Ware's  friends  to  be  so  distressed  about  her ;  stranger 
Ihings  had  happened  ;  she  was  evidently  a  perfectly 
well  woman  ;  and  as  for  the  marriage,  they  had  never 
liked  the  match  —  George  Ware  was  too  old  and  too 
grave  for  her  ;  and,  besides,  he  was  her  second  cousin 


190  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Oh,  the  torture  of  the  "  ante-mortems  "  of  beloved 
ones,  at  which  we  are  all  forced  to  assist ! 

Yet  it  could  not  be  wondered  at,  that  in  this  case 
the  whole  heart  of  the  community  was  alive  with  inter- 
est and  speculation. 

Annie  Ware's  sweet  face  had  been  known  and  loved 
in  every  house  in  our  village.  Her  father  was  the 
richest,  most  influential  man  in  the  county,  and  the 
most  benevolent.  Many  a  man  and  woman  had  kissed 
Henry  Ware's  baby  in  her  little  wagon,  for  the  sake 
of  Henry  Ware's  good  deeds  to  them  or  theirs.  And 
while  Mrs.  Ware  had  ahvays  repelled  persons  by  her 
haughty  reticence,  Annie,  from  the  first  day  she  could 
speak  until  now,  had  won  all  hearts  by  her  sunny, 
open,  sympathizing  nature.  No  wonder  that  now, 
when  they  saw  her  again  fresh,  glad,  beautiful,  and 
looking  stronger  and  in  better  health  than  she  had 
ever  done,  they  said  that  we  were  wrong,  that  Annie 
and  Nature  were  right,  and  that  all  would  be  well ! 

This  spring  there  came  to  our  town  a  family  of 
wealth  and  position  who  had  for  many  years  lived  in 
Europe,  and  who  had  now  returned  to  make  America 
their  home.  They  had  taken  a  furnished  house  for  a 
year,  to  make  trial  of  our  air,  and  also,  perhaps,  of 
the  societ}',  although  rumor,  with  the  usual  jealousy, 
said  that  the  Neals  did  not  desire  any  intimacy  with 
their  neighbors.  The  grounds  of  the  house  which 
they  had  hired  joined  my  uncle's,  and  my  Aunt  Ann, 
usually  averse  to  making  new  acquaintances,  had 
called  upon  them  at  once,  and  had  welcomed  them 
most  warmly  to  her  house.  The  family  consisted  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Neal  and  two  sons,  Arthur  and  Edward. 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  I9I 

They  were  people  of  culture,  and  of  wide  experience ; 
but  they  were  not  of  fine  organization  nor  of  the  high- 
est breeding ;  and  it  will  ever  remain  a  mystery  to  me 
that  there  should  have  seemed  to  be,  from  the  outset, 
an  especial  bond  of  intimacy  between  them  and  my 
uncle  and  aunt.  I  think  it  was  partly  the  sense  of 
relief  with  which  they  welcomed  a  new  interest  —  a 
little  break  in  the  monotony  of  anxiety  which  had 
been  for  so  many  months  corroding  their  very  lives. 

Almost  before  I  knew  that  the  Neals  were  accepted 
as  famiUar  friends,  I  was  startled  one  morning,  while 
we  were  at  breakfast,  by  the  ap|Xiarance  of  Annie 
on  her  pony,  looking  in  at  our  dining-room  window. 
She  had  a  pretty  way  of  riding  up  noiselessly  on  the 
green  grass,  and  making  her  pony,  which  was  tame  as 
a  Newfoundland  dog,  mount  the  stone  steps,  and  tap 
with  his  nose  on  the  panes  of  the  long  glass  door  till 
we  opened  it. 

I  never  saw  her  so  angelically  beautiful  as  she  was 
this  morning.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  dark 
blue  eyes  sparkled  like  gems  in  the  sun.  Presently 
she  said,  hesitating  a  little,  — 

•*  Edward  Neal  is  at  the  gate  ;  may  I  bring  him  in  ? 
I  told  him  he  might  come,  but  he  said  it  was  too  like 
burglary ;  "  and  she  cantered  off  again  without  waiting 
to  hear  my  mother's  permission. 

All  that  morning  Annie  Ware  and  Edward  Neal  sat 
with  me  on  our  piazza.  I  looked  and  listened  and 
watched  like  one  in  a  dream,  or  under  a  spell.  I 
foresaw,  I  foreknew  what  was  to  come  ;  with  the  sub- 
tle insight  of  love,  I  saw  all. 

Never  had  I  seen  Annie  so  stirred  into  joyousness  by 


192  SAXE  HOLM'S  SJ'ORIES. 

George's  presence  as  she  seemed  to  be  by  this  boy  s. 
The  two  together  overflowed  in  a  sparkUng  current 
of  gayety,  which  was  irresistible.  They  seemed  two 
divine  children  sent  out  on  a  mission  to  set  the  world 
at  play.  What  Edward  Neal's  more  sensuous  and  ma- 
terial nature  lacked,  was  supplied  by  the  finer,  subtler 
quality  of  Annie's.  From  that  first  day  I  could  never 
disguise  from  myself  that  they  seemed,  so  far  as  mere 
physical  life  goes,  the  absolute  counterparts  of  each 
other. 

I  need  not  dwell  on  this  part  of  my  story.  When 
young  hearts  are  drawing  together,  summer  days  speed 
on  very  swiftly.  George  Ware,  alas  !  was  kept  at  the 
West  week  after  week,  until  it  came  to  be  month  after 
month.  My  uncle  and  aunt  seemed  deliberately  to 
shut  their  eyes  to  the  drift  of  events.  I  think  they 
were  so  thankful  to  w^atch  Annie's  bounding  health 
and  happiness,  to  hear  glad  voices  and  merry  laughs 
echoing  all  day  in  their  house,  that  they  could  not 
allow  themselves  to  ask  whether  a  new  kernel  of  bit- 
terness, of  danger,  lay  at  the  core  of  all  this  fair  seem- 
ing. As  for  the  children,  they  did  not  know  that  they 
were  loving  each  other  as  man  and  woman.  Edward 
Neal  was  only  twenty-one,  Annie  but  nineteen,  and 
both  were  singularly  young  and  innocent  of  soul. 

And  so  it  came  to  be  once  more  the  early  autumn  ; 
the  maple  leaves  were  beginning  to  be  red,  and  my 
chrysanthemums  had  again  set  their  tiny  round  disks 
of  buds.  Edward  and  Annie  had  said  no  word  of 
love  to  each  other,  but  the  whole  town  looked  on  them 
as  lovers,  and  people  began  to  reply  impatiently  and 
incredulously  to  our  assurances  that  no  engagement 
existed. 


WHOSE   WIFE    WAS  SHE  t  1 93 

Early  in  October  George  came  home,  very  unex- 
pectedly, taking  even  his  mother  by  surprise.  He  told 
me  afterwards  that  he  came  at  last  as  one  warned  of 
God.  A  presentiment  of  evil,  against  which  he  had 
struggled  for  weeks,  finally  so  overwhelmed  him  that 
Me  set  off  for  home  without  half  an  hour's  delay.  I 
found  him,  on  the  night  after  his  arrival,  sitting  in  his 
old  place  in  the  big  arm-chair  at  the  head  of  Annie's 
lounge  ;  she  still  clung  to  some  of  her  old  invalid 
ways,  and  spent  many  evenings  curled  up  like  a  half- 
shut  pink  rose  on  the  green  damask  cushions.  He 
looked  worn  and  thin,  but  glad  and  eager,  and  was 
giving  a  lively  account  of  his  Western  experiences 
when  the  library  door  opened,  and  coming  in  un- 
announced, with  the  freedom  of  one  at  home,  Edward 
Neal  entered. 

"O  Edward,  here  is  Cousin  George,"  exclaimed 
Annie,  while  a  wave  of  rosy  color  spread  over  her 
face ,  and  half  rising,  she  took  George's  hand  in  hers 
as  she  leaned  towards  Edward. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Ware,"  said 
Edward,  with  that  indefinable  tone  of  gentle  respect 
which  marks  a  very  young  man's  recognition  of  one 
much  older,  whom  he  has  been  led  to  admire.  "Annie 
has  been  talking  to  me  about  you  all  summer.  I  feel 
as  if  I  knew  you  almost  as  well  as  she  does.  I'm 
heartily  glad  to  see  you." 

A  man  of  finer  grain  than  Edward  Neal  would  have 
known  the  whole  truth  in  that  first  second,  by  the 
blank  stern  look  which  spread  like  a  cloud  over 
George  Ware's  face  ;  but  the  open-hearted  fellow  only 
thought  that  he  had  perhaps  seemed  too  familiar  and 
went  on, —  13 


194  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Ware.  It  must  appear 
Btrange  to  you  that  I  took  the  liberty  of  being  so 
glad  ;  but  you  don't  know  how  kindly  I  have  been 
allowed  to  feel  that  your  friends  here  would  permit 
me  to  call  all  their  friends  mine,"  and  he  glanced 
lovingly  and  confidently  at  my  aunt  and  uncle,  who 
answered  by  such  smiles  as  they  rarely  gave.  Oh,  no 
wonder  they  loved  this  genial,  frank  sunny  boy,  who 
had  brought  such  light  into  their  life. 

In  a  moment  George  was  his  courteous  self  again, 
and  began  to  express  his  pleasure  at  meeting  Mr.  Neal, 
but  Annie  interrupted  him. 

"  Oh,  now  don't  be  tiresome  ;  of  course  you  are  to 
be  just  as  good  friends  with  Edward  as  you  are  with 
me:  sit  down,  Edward.  He  is  telling  us  the  most 
delicious  stories.  He  is  the  dearest  Cousin  Georsre 
in  the  world,"  she  added,  stroking  his  hand  which  she 
still  kept  in  hers. 

It  gave  Edward  no  more  surprise  to  see  her  do  this 
than  it  would  have  done  to  see  her  sit  in  her  father's 
lap.  Even  I  felt  with  a  sudden  pang  that  George 
Ware  seemed  at  that  moment  to  belong  to  another 
generation  than  Edward  and  Annie. 

Edward  seated  himself  on  a  low  cricket  at  the  foot 
of  the  lounge,  and,  looking  up  in  George's  face,  said 
most  winningh^, — 

"  Please  go  on,  Mr.  Ware."  Then  he  turned  one 
full,  sweet  look  of  greeting  and  welcome  upon  Annie, 
who  beamed  back  upon  him  with  such  a  diffused  smile 
as  only  the  rarest  faces  have.  Annie's  smile  was  one 
of  her  greatest  charms.  It  changed  her  whole  face  ; 
the  lips  made  but  a  small  part  of  it;  no.  mortal  ever 
^aw  it  without  smiling  in  answer. 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 95 

It  was  beyond  George  Ware's  power  long  to  endure 
this.  Probably  his  instinct  felt  in  both  Edward's 
atmosphere  and  Annie's  more  than  we  did.  He  rose 
very  soon  and  said  to  me,  "  If  you  are  going  home 
to-night,  Helen,  will  you  let  me  walk  up  with  you  ?  I 
have  business  in  that  part  of  the  town  ;  but  I  must  go 
now.  Perhaps  that  will  hurry  you  too  much  ? "  he 
added,  with  a  tone  which  was  almost  imploring. 

I  was  only  too  glad  to  go.  Our  leave-taking  was 
very  short.  A  shade  of  indefinable  trouble  clouded 
every  face  but  Edward's  and  Annie's. 

George  did  not  speak  until  we  had  left  the  house. 
Then  he  stopped  short,  took  both  my  hands  in  his, 
with  a  grasp  that  both  hurt  and  frightened  me,  and 
exclaimed,  — 

"  How  dared  you  keep  this  from  me  !  How  dared 
you  !  " 

'*0  George,"  I  said,  ^' there  was  nothing  to  tell." 

"  Nothing  to  tell !  "  and  his  voice  grew  hoarse  and 
loud.  "  Nothing  to  tell !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  don't  know,  have  not  known  that  Annie  loves  that 
boy,  that  puppy  ?  " 

I  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  I  could  not  speak. 
He  went  on  :  — 

"  And  I  trusted  you  so  ;  O  Helen,  I  can  never 
forgive  you." 

I  murmured,  miserably,  for  I  felt  myself  in  that 
moment  really  guilty, — 

"What  makes  you  think  she  loves  him  ?  " 

"  You  cannot  deceive  me,  Helen,"  he  replied.  "  Do 
not  torture  me  and  yourself  by  trying.  Tell  me  now, 
how  long  this  '  Edward '  has  been  sitting  by  her 
'ounge.     Tell  me  all." 


196  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Then  I  told  him  all.  It  was  not  much.  He  had 
seen  more  that  evening,  and  so  had  I,  than  had  ever 
existed  before.  His  presence  had  been  the  one 
element  which  had  suddenly  defined  that  which  before 
had  been  hardly  recognized. 

He  was  very  quiet  after  the  first  moment  of  bitter- 
ness, and  asked  me  to  forgive  his  impatient  words. 
When  he  left  me  he  said,  — 

"  I  cannot  see  clearly  what  I  ought  to  do.  Annie's 
happiness  is  my  only  aim.  If  this  boy  can  create  it, 
and  I  cannot  —  but  he  cannot :  she  was  as  utterly 
mine  as  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  be.  You  none 
of  you  knew  how  utterly!  Oh,  my  God,  what  shall  I 
do  !  "  and  he  walked  away  feebly  and  slowly  like  an 
old  man  of  seventy. 

The  next  day  Aunt  Ann  sent  for  me  to  come  to  her. 
I  found  her  in  great  distress.  George  had  returned  to 
the  house  after  leaving  me,  and  had  had  almost  a 
stormy  interview  with  my  uncle.  He  insisted  upon 
asking  Annie  at  once  to  be  his  wife  ;  making  no  ref- 
erence to  the  past,  but  appearing  at  once  as  her 
suitor.  My  uncle  could  not  forbid  it,  for  he  recognized 
George's  right,  and  he  sympathized  in  his  suffering. 
But  his  terror  was  insupportable  at  the  thought  of 
having  Annie  agitated,  and  of  the  possible  results 
which  might  follow.  He  implored  George  to  wait  at 
least  a  few  weeks. 

"  What !  and  see  that  young  lover  at  my  wife's  feet 
every  night !  "  said  George,  fiercely.  "  No  !  I  will  risk 
all,  lose  all,  if  need  be.  I  have  been  held  back  long 
enough,"  and  he  had  gone  directly  from  my  uncle's 
room  to  Annie  herself. 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 97 

In  a  short  time  Annie  had  come  to  her  mother  in  a 
perfect  passion  of  weeping,  and  told  her  that  Cousin 
George  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  ;  and  that  she 
had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing ;  and  she  thought 
he  was  very  unkind  to  be  so  angry  with  her;  how 
could  she  have  supposed  he  cared  for  her  in  that 
way,  when  he  had  been  Hke  her  elder  brother  all  his 
life. 

"  Why,  he  seems  almost  as  old  as  papa,"  said  poor 
Annie,  sobbing  and  crying,  "  and  he  ought  to  have 
known  that  I  should  not  kiss  him  and  put  my  arms 
around  him  if — if" —  she  could  not  explain  \  but  she 
knew ! 

Annie  had  gone  to  her  own  room,  ill.  My  aunt 
and  I  sat  together  in  the  library  silently  crying  ;  we 
were  wretched.  "Oh,  if  George  would  only  have 
waited,"  said  Aunt  Ann. 

"  I  think  it  would  have  made  no  difference,  aunty," 
said  I. 

"  No,  I  am  afraid  not,"  replied  she,  and  each  knew 
that  the  other  was  thinking  of  Edward  Neal. 

George  Ware  left  town  the  next  day.  He  sent  me 
a  short  note.  He  could  not  see  any  one,  he  said,  and 
begged  me  to  give  a  farewell  kiss  for  him  to  "  the 
sweet  mother  of  my  Annie.  For  mine  she  is,  and  will 
be  in  heaven,  though  she  will  be  the  wife  of  Edward 
Neal  on  earth." 

When  I  next  saw  our  Annie  she  was  Edward  Neal's 
promised  bride.  A  severe  fit  of  illness,  the  result  of 
all  these  excitements,  confined  me  to  my  room  for 
i*hree  weeks  after  George's  departure  ;  and  I  knew 
only  from  Aunt  Ann's  lips  the  events  which  had  fol' 
owed  upon  it. 


igS  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

George  Ware's  presence  on  that  first  evening  had 
brought  revelation  to  Edward  Neal  as  well  as  to  all 
the  other  members  of  that  circle.  That  very  night  he 
had  told  his  parents  that  Annie  would  be  his  wife. 

The  next  night,  while  poor  George  was  swiftly 
borne  away,  Edward  was  sitting  in  my  uncle's  library, 
listening  with  a  blanched  cheek  to  the  story  of  An- 
nie's old  engagement.  My  uncle's  sense  of  honor 
would  not  let  him  withhold  anything  from  the  man 
seeking  her  for  his  wife.  The  pain  soon  passed  by, 
when  he  was  told  that  she  had  that  very  day  refused 
her  cousin,  and  betrayed  almost  resentment  at  his 
offer.  Edward  Neal  had  not  a  sufficiently  subtle 
nature,  nor  acquaintance  enough  with  psychological 
phenomena  to  be  disturbed  by  any  fears  for  the  future. 
He  dismissed  it  all  as  an  inexplicable  result  of  the 
disease,  but  a  fixed  fact,  and  a  great  and  blessed  for- 
tune for  him.  My  uncle,  however,  was  less  easily 
assured.  He  insisted  upon  delay,  and  upon  consult- 
ing the  same  physicians  who  had  studied  Annie's  case 
before.  They  all  agreed  that  she  was  now  a  perfectly 
healthy  and  strong  woman,  and  that  to  persist  in  any 
farther  recognition  of  the  old  bond,  after  she  had  so 
intelligently  and  emphatically  repudiated  all  thought 
of  such  a  relation  to  her  cousin,  was  absurd.  Dr. 
Fearing  alone  was  in  doubt,  He  said  little ;  but  he 
shook  his  head  and  clasped  his  hands  tight,  and  im- 
plored that  at  least  the  marriage  should  be  deferred 
for  a  year. 

Annie  herself,  however,  refused  to  consent  to  this  : 
of  course  no  satisfactory  reason  could  be  alleged  for 
any  such  delay;  and    she  said  as  frankly  as  a  little 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  1 99 

child,  "  Edward  and  I  have  loved  each  other  almost 
from  the  very  first ;  there  is  nothing  for  either  of  us 
to  do  in  life  but  to  make  each  other  happy  ;  and  we 
shall  not  leave  papa  and  mamma :  so  why  should  we 
wait  ? " 

They  were  not  married,  however,  until  spring.  The 
whole  town  stood  by  in  speechless  joy  and  delight 
when  those  two  beautiful  young  beings  came  out  from 
the  village  church  man  and  wife.  It  was  a  scene 
never  to  be  forgotten.  The  peculiar  atmosphere  of 
almost  playful  joyousness  which  they  created  when- 
ever they  appeared  together  was  something  which 
could  not  be  described,  but  which  diffused  itself  like 
sunlight. 

We  all  tried  resolutely  to  dismiss  memory  and  mis- 
giving from  our  hearts.  They  seemed  disloyalty  and 
sin.  George  Ware  was  in  India.  George  Ware's 
mother  was  dead.  The  cottage  among  the  pines  was 
sold  to  strangers,  and  the  glistening  brown  paths 
under  the  trees  were  neglected  and  unused. 

Edward  and  Annie  led  the  same  gay  child-like  lives 
after  their  marriage  that  they  h«id  led  before  :  they 
looked  even  younger  and  gayer  and  sunnier.  When 
they  dashed  cantering  through  the  river  meadows,  she 
with  rosy  cheeks  and  pale  brown  curls  flying  in  the 
wind,  and  he  with  close  crisp  black  hair,  and  the  rich, 
dark,  glowing  skin  of  a  Spaniard,  the  farming  men 
turned  and  rested  on  their  tools,  and  gazed  till  they 
were  out  of  sight.  Sometimes  I  asked  myself  wonder- 
ingly,  '^  Are  they  ever  still,  and  tender,  and  silent.?" 
"  Is  this  perpetual  overflow  the  whole  of  love  ?  "  But 
It  seemed  treason   to  doubt  in  the  presence  of  such 


200  SAS£  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

merry  gladness  as  shone  in  Annie's  face,  and  in  hei 
husband's  too.  It  was  simply  the  incarnate  triumph 
and  joy  of  young  life. 

The  summer  went  by  ;  the  chrysanthemums  bloomed 
out  white  and  full  in  my  garden  ;  the  frosts  came,  and 
then  the  winter,  and  then  Annie  told  me  one  day  that 
before  winter  came  again  she  would  be  a  mother.  She 
was  a  little  sobered  as  she  saw  the  intense  look  on  my 
face. 

"  Why,  darling,  aren't  you  glad  ?  I  thought  you 
would  be  almost  as  glad  as  I  am  myself?"  Annie 
sometimes  misunderstood  me  now. 

"  Glad  !  O  Annie,"  was  all  I  could  say. 

From  that  day  I  had  but  one  thought,  Annie's  baby. 
Together  we  wrought  all  dainty  marvels  for  its  ward- 
robe ;  together  we  planned  all  possible  events  in  its 
life  :  from  the  outset  I  felt  as  much  motherhood  to  the 
precious  little  unseen  one  as  Annie  did.  She  used  to 
say  to  me,  often,  — 

"  Darling,  it  will  be  half  my  baby,  and  half  yours." 

Annie  was  absolutely  and  gloriously  well  through 
the  whole  of  those  mysterious  first  months  of  maternity 
which  are  to  so  many  women  exhausting  and  pain- 
ful. Every  nerve  of  her  body  seemed  strung  and 
attuned  to  normal  and  perfect  harmonv.  She  was 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  stronger  than  ever,  and  so 
glad  that  she  smiled  perpetually  without  knowing  it. 
For  the  first  time  since  the  old  days,  dear  Dr.  Fear- 
ing's  face  lost  the  anxious  look  with  which  his  eyes 
always  rested  upon  her.  He  was  more  at  ease  about 
her  now. 

Before  light  one  Sunday  morning  in  December,  a 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  20I 

messenger  rang  furiously  at  our  bell.  We  had  been 
looking  for  such  tidings  and  were  not  alarmed.  It 
was  a  fearful  storm  ;  wind  and  sleet  and  ram  and 
darkness  had  attended  the  coming  of  Annie's  little 
"  Sunday  child  "  into  its  human  life. 

uA  boy— and  Miss  Annie's  all  right,"  old  Caesar 
said,  with  a  voice  almost  as  hoarse  as  the  storm  out- 
side'; and  he  was  gone  before  we  could  ask  a  question 

farther. 

In  less  than  an  hour  I  stood  on  the  threshold  of 
Annie's  room.  But  I  did  not  see  her  until  noon. 
Then,  as  I  crept  softly  into  the  dimly-lighted  chamber, 
the  whole  scene  so  recalled  her  illness  of  two  years 
before  that  my  heart  stood  still  with  sudden  horror, 
in  spite  of  all  my  joy.  Now,  as  then,  I  knelt  silently 
at  her  bedside,  and  saw  the  sweet  face  lying  white  and 
still  on  the  pillow. 

She  turned,  and  seeing  me,  smiled  faintly,  but   did 

not  speak. 

At  her  first  glance,  a  speechless  terror  seized  me. 
This  was  my  Annie  !  The  woman  who  for  two  years 
had  been  smiling  with  my  Annie's  face  had  not  been 
she !  The  room  grew  dark.  I  do  not  know  what 
supernatural  power  came   to   my  aid  that  I   did    not 

faint  and  fall. 

Annie  drew  back  the  bed-clothes  with  a  slow,  feeble 
motion  of  her  right  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  tiny  little 
head  nestled  in  her  bosom.  She  smiled  again,  looked 
at  me  gently  and  steadily  for  a  second,  and  then  shut 
her  eyes.  Presently  I  saw  that  she  was  asleep;  I 
stole  into  the  next  room  and  sat  down  with  my  face 
buried  in  my  hands. 


202  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

In  a  moment  a  light  step  aroused  me.  Aunt  Ann 
stood  before  me,  her  pale  face  all   aglow  with  delight. 

"  O  Helen  my  darling  !  She  is  so  well.  Thank 
God  !  thank  God  !  "  and  she  threw  her  arms  around 
me  and  burst  into  tears. 

I  felt  like  one  turned  to  stone.  Was  I  mad,  or  were 
they  t 

What  had  I  seen  in  that  one  steady  look  of  Annie's 
eyes  ?  Was  she  really  well  ?  I  felt  as  if  she  had 
already  died ! 

Agonizingly  I  waited  to  see  Dr.  Fearing's  face. 
He  came  in  before  tea,  saw  Annie  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  came  down-stairs  rubbing  his  hands  and  singing 
in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  never  saw  anything  like  that  child's  beautiful 
elasticity  in  my  life,"  he  said.  "  We  shall  have  her 
dancing  down-stairs  in  a  month." 

The  cloud  was  utterly  lifted  from  all  hearts  except 
mine.  My  aunt  and  uncle  looked  at  each  other  with 
swimming  e3^es.  Edward  tried  to  laugh  and  look  gay, 
but  broke  down  utterly,  and  took  refuge  in  the  library, 
where  I  found  him  lying  on  the  floor,  with  his  face 
buried  in  Annie's  lounge. 

I  went  home  stupefied,  bewildered.  I  could  not 
sleep.  A  terror-stricken  instinct  told  me  that  all  was 
not  right.  But  how  should  I  know  more  than  physi- 
cian, mother,  husband  ? 

For  ten  days  I  saw  my  Annie  every  day  for  an  hour. 
Her  sweet,  strange,  gentle,  steady  look  into  my  eyes 
when  we  first  met  always  paralyzed  me  with  fear,  and 
yet  I  could  not  have  told  why.  There  was  a  fathom- 
less serenity  in  her  face  which  seemed  to  me   super 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  203 

human.  She  said  very  little.  The  doctor  had  for- 
bidden her  to  talk.  She  slept  the  greater  part  of  the 
time,  but  never  allowed  the  baby  to  be  moved  from 
her  arms  while  she  was  awake. 

There  was  a  divine  ecstasy  in  her  expression  as  she 
looked  down  into  the  little  face ;  it  never  seemed  like 
human  motherhood. 

One  day  Edward  came  to  me  and  said,  — 

"  Do  you  think  Annie  is  so  well  as  they  say  ?  I  sup- 
pose they  must  know  ;  but  she  looks  to  me  as  if  she 
had  died  already,  and  it  were  only  her  glorified  angel- 
body  that  lies  in  that  bed  ? " 

I  could  not  speak  to  him.  I  knew  then  that  he  had 
seen  the  same  thing  that  I  had  seen :  if  his  strong, 
rather  obtuse  material  nature  had  recognized  it,  what 
could  so  blind  her  mother  and  father  and  the  doctor? 
I  burst  into  tears  and  left  him. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  I  saw  a  cloud  on  Dr.  Fear- 
ing's  face.  As  he  left  Annie's  room  one  morning,  he 
stopped  me  and  said  abruptly,  — 

"  What  does  Annie  talk  about  ? " 

"  She  hardly  speaks  at  all,"  I  said. 

"  Ah,"  he  said.  "  Well,  I  have  ordered  her  not  to 
talk.    But  does  she  ask  any  questions  ?  "  he  continued. 

"  No,"  I  said  ;  "  not  of  me.  She  has  not  asked 
one." 

I  saw  then  that  the  same  vague  fear  which  was  fill- 
ing my  heart  was  taking  shape  in  his. 

From  that  moment  he  watched  her  hourly,  with  an 
anxiety  which  soon  betrayed  itself  to  my  aunt. 

"  William,  why  does  not  Annie  get  stronger  ?  "  she 
said  suddenly  to  him  one  day. 


204  SAKE  HO  LAPS  STORIES. 

"  I  do  not  know  why,"  he  answered,  with  a  solemn 
sadness  and  emphasis  in  his  tone  which  was,  as  I 
think  he  intended  it  to  be,  a  partial  revelation  to  her, 
and  a  warning.  Aunt  Ann  staggered  to  a  chair  and 
looked  at  him  without  a  word.  He  answered  her 
look  by  one  equally  agonized  and  silent,  and  left  the 
room. 

The  baby  was  now  two  weeks  old.  Annie  was  no 
stronger  than  on  the  day  of  his  birth.  She  lay  day 
and  night  in  a  tranquil  state,  smiling  with  inexpressi- 
ble sweetness  when  she  w^as  spoken  to,  rarely  speak- 
ing of  her  own  accord,  doing  with  gentle  docility  all 
she  was  told  to  do,  but  looking  more  and  more  like  a 
transfigured  saint.  All  the  arch,  joyous,  playful  look 
was  gone  ;  there  was  no  added  age  in  the  look  which 
had  taken  its  place  ;  neither  any  sorrow ;  but  something 
ineffably  solemn,  rapt,  removed  from  earth.  Some- 
times, when  Edward  came  to  her  bedside,  a  great  wave 
of  pitying  tenderness  would  sweep  over  her  face,  giv- 
ing it  such  a  heavenly  look  that  he  would  fall  on  his 
knees. 

"  O  Helen,"  he  said  once,  after  such  a  moment  as 
this,  "  I  shall  go  mad  if  Annie  does  not  get  well.  I 
do  not  dare  to  kiss  even  her  hand.  I  feel  as  if  she 
never  had  been  mine." 

At  last  the  day  and  the  hour  and  the  moment  came 
which  I  had  known  would  come.  Annie  spoke  to  me 
in  a  ver}^  gentle  voice,  and  said,  — 

"  Helen,  darling,  you  know  I  am  going  to  die  .'*  " 

"  Yes  dear,  I  think  so,"  I  said,  in  as  quiet  a  voice  as 
hers. 

'^  You  know  it  is  better  that  I  should,  darling  ?  * 
Bhe  said  with  a  tremblins:  voice. 


WHOSE   WIFE    WAS  SHE?  205 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know  it,"  I  replied. 

She  drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  am  so  glad, 
darling;  I  thought  you  knew  it,  but  I  could  not  be 
sure.  I  think  no  one  else  understands.  I  hope  dear 
mamma  will  never  suspect.  You  will  not  let  her, 
if  you  can  help  it ;  the  dear  doctor  will  not  tell  her  ; 
he  knows,  though.  Darling,  I  want  you  to  have  my 
baby.  I  think  Edward  will  be  willing.  He  is  so 
young,  he  will  be  happy  again  before  long ;  he  will 
not  miss  him.  You  know  we  have  always  said  it 
was  partly  your  baby.  Look  at  his  eyes  now,  Helen," 
she  said,  turning  the  little  face  towards  me,  and  into  a 
full  light. 

I  started.  I  had  never  till  that  moment  seen  in  them 
a  subtle  resemblance  to  the  eyes  of  George  Ware. 
We  had  said  that  the  baby  had  his  mother's  eyes  —  so 
he  had ;  but  there  had  always  been  a  likeness  between 
Annie's  eyes  and  George's  though  hers  were  light-blue, 
and  his  of  a  blue  so  dark  that  it  was  often  believed  to 
be  black.  All  the  Wares  had  a  very  peculiar  lumin- 
ousness  of  the  eye  j  it  was  so  marked  a  family  trait 
that  it  had  passed  into  almost  proverbial  mention,  in 
connection  with  the  distinguished  beauty  of  the  family. 
"  The  Ware  eye  "  was  always  recognizable,  no  matter 
what  color  it  had  taken  from  the  admixture  of  other 
blood. 

At  that  moment  I  saw,  and  I  knew  that  Annie  had 
seen,  that  the  baby's  eyes  were  not  so  much  like  her 
own  as  like  the  deeper,  sadder,  darker  eyes  of  her 
cousin  —  brave,  hopeless,  dear  George,  who  was  toil- 
ing under  the  sun  of  India,  making  a  fortune  for  he 
knew  not  whom. 


206  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

We  neither  of  us  spoke ;  presently  the  little  uncon- 
Bcious  eyes  closed  in  sweet  sleep,  and  Annie  went  on, 
holding  him  close  to  her  heart. 

"  You  see,  dear,  poor  mamma  will  not  be  able  to 
bear  seeing  him  after  I  die.  Common  mothers  would 
love  him  for  my  sake.  But  mamma  is  not  like  other 
women.  She  will  come  very  soon  where  I  am,  poor 
mamma ;  and  then  you  will  have  to  take  papa  home 
to  your  house,  and  papa  will  have  comfort  in  little 
Henry.  But  he  must  be  your  baby,  Helen.  I  shall 
speak  to  Edward  about  it  soon." 

She  was  not  strong  enough  to  talk  long.  She  shed 
no  tears,  however,  and  looked  as  calm  as  if  she  were 
telling  me  of  pleasant  plans  for  a  coming  earthly  sum- 
mer. I  also  was  perfectly  calm,  and  felt  strangely 
free  from  sorrow.  Her  absolute  spirituality  bore  me 
up.  It  was  as  if  I  spoke  with  her  in  heaven,  thou- 
sands of  centuries  after  all  human  perplexities  had 
passed  away. 

After  this  day  she  grew  rapidly  weaker.  She  had 
no  pain.  There  was  not  a  single  physical  symptom  in 
her  case  which  the  science  of  medicine  could  name  or 
meet.  There  was  literally  nothing  to  be  done  for  her. 
Neither  tonic  nor  stimulant  produced  the  least  effect. 
She  was  noiselessly  sinking  out  of  life,  as  very  old 
people  sometimes  die,  without  a  single  jar,  or  shock,  or 
struggle.  Her  beautiful  serenity  and  entire  freedom 
from  suffering  blinded  Aunt  Ann's  eyes  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  dying.  This  was  a  great  mercy,  and  we 
were  all  careful  not  by  a  word  or  look  to  rouse  her  to 
the  truth.  To  all  her  mother's  inquiries  Annie  inva- 
•iably  replied,  "  Better,  dear  mamma,  better,  only  very 


WHOSE   WIFE    WAS  SHE?  20/ 

weak,"  and  Aunt  Ann   believed,  until  the  very   last, 
that  the  spring  would  make  her  well  again. 

Edward  Neal's  face  during  these  weeks  was  like  the 
face  of  a  man  lost  in  a  trackless  desert,  seeking  vainly 
for  some  sign  of  road  to  save  his  life.     Sickness  and 
death  were  as  foreign  to  the  young,  vital,  irrepressible 
currents   of  his  life,  as  if  he  had  been  a  bird  or    an 
antelope.     But  it  was  not  now  with  him  the  mere  be- 
wildered grief  of  a  sensuous  animal  nature,  such  as  I 
should  have  anticipated  that  his  grief  would  be.     He 
dimly  felt  the  truth,  and   was  constantly  terrified  by 
it.      He  came  into  Annie's  presence   more  and   more 
reverently  each  day.     He  gazed  speechlessly  into  her 
eyes,  which  rested  on  him  always  with  angelic  compas- 
sion'and  tenderness,  but  with  no  more  look  of  human 
wifely  thought  than  if  he  and  she  were  kneeling  side 
by  side  before    God's   white    throne.     Sometimes    he 
dared  not  touch  even  so  much  as  the  hand  on  which 
his  own  wedding-ring   rested.     Sometimes    he  would 
kneel  by  the  bedside  and  bury  his  face  and  weep  like 
a  little  child.     Then  he  would  throw  himself  on  his 
horse  and  gallop  away  and  not  come  home  until  twi- 
light, when  he  was  always  found  on  Annie's  lounge  in 
the  library.     One  night  when  I  went  to  him  there  he 
said,  in  a  tone  so  solemn  that  the  voice  did  not  sound 

like  his,  — 

"  Helen,  there  is  something  I  do  not  understand 
about  Annie.  Do  people  always  seem  so  when  they 
are  going  to  die?  I  do  not  dare  to  ask  her  if  she  loves 
me.  I  feel  just  as  much  awe  of  her  as  if  she  had 
been  in  heaven.  It  seems  sometimes  as  if  I  must  be 
going  mad,  for  I  do  not  feel  in  the  least  as  if  she  had 
ever  been  my  wife." 


208  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  She  never  has,  poor  boy,"  I  thought,  but  I  only 
stroked  his  hair  and  said  nothing ;  wondering  in  my 
heart  at  the  certainty  with  which  in  all  natures  love 
knows  how  to  define,  conquer,  reclaim  his  own. 

The  day  before  Annie  died  she  asked  for  her  jewel- 
case,  and  spent  several  hours  in  looking  over  its  con- 
tents and  telling  me  to  whom  they  should  be  given.  I 
observed  that  she  seemed  to  be  searching  uneasily  for 
something  she  could  not  find. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  I  said.  She  hesitated  for  a 
second,  and  then  replied,  — 

"  Only  a  little  ring  I  had  when  I  was  a  girl." 

"  When  you  were  a  girl,  my  darling !  "  I  exclaimed. 
She  smiled  gently  and  said,  — 

"  I  feel  like  an  old  woman  now.  Oh,  here  it  is," 
she  added,  and  held  it  out  to  me  to  open  for  her  the 
tiny  padlock-shaped  locket  which  hung  from  it.  It 
had  become  so  tightly  fastened  together  that  it  was 
with  great  difficulty  I  could  open  it.  When  I  did  so, 
I  saw  lying  in  the  hollow  a  little  ring  of  black  hair, 
and  I  remembered  that  Annie  had  w^rn  the  ring  when 
she  was  twelve  years  old. 

She  asked  me  to  cut  a  few  of  the  silky  hairs  from 
the  baby's  head,  and  then  one  little  curl  from  her  own, 
and  laying  them  with  the  other,  she  shut  the  locket  and 
asked  for  a  piece  of  paper  and  pencil.  She  wrote  one 
word  with  great  difficulty,  folded  the  ring  in  the  paper, 
wrote  another  word  on  the  outside,  and  laid  it  in  a 
corner  of  the  jewel-case.  Then  she  sank  back  on  the 
pillows,  and  slipping  her  left  hand  under  her  cheek 
said  she  was  very  tired,  and  almost  instantly  fell  into 
«i  gentle  sleep.     She  did  not  wake  until   twilight.     I 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  209 

was  to  sleep  on  the  lounge  in  her  room  that  night,  and 
when  she  woke  I  was  preparing  it. 

"  Darling,"  she  said,  "  could  you  sleep  as  well  in 
my  big  chair,  which  can  be  tipped  back  ? " 

"  Certainly,  sweet,"  I  said  ;  "  but  why  ? " 

"  Because  that  can  be  drawn  up  so  much  nearer  me ; 
it  will  be  like  sleeping  together." 

At  nine  o'clock  the  nurse  brought  the  baby  in 
and  laid  him  in  Annie's  bosom,  sound  asleep.  Annie 
would  not  let  him  lie  anywhere  else,  and  was  so 
grieved  at  any  remonstrance,  that  the  doctor  said  she 
must  be  indulged  in  the  desire.  WTien  she  was  awake 
and  was  not  speaking  to  us,  her  eyes  never  left  the 
baby's  face. 

She  turned  over,  with  her  face  to  the  chair  in  which 
I  lay,  and  reached  out  her  left  hand  towards  me.  I 
took  it  in  mine,  and  so,  with  our  hands  clasped  above 
the  little  sleeping  baby,  we  said  "  good-night"  to  each 
other. 

"  I  feel  much  better  to-night  than  I  have  for  some 
days,  dear  Helen,"  she  said ;  "  I  should  not  wonder  if 
we  all  three  slept  until  morning." 

Very  soon  I  saw  that  she  was  asleep.  I  watched 
her  face  for  a  long  time  ;  it  was  perfectly  colorless 
and  very  thin,  and  yet  there  was  not  a  look  of  illness 
on  it.  The  ineffable  serenity,  the  holy  peace,  made  it 
look  like  the  face  of  one  who  had  been  transfigured, 
translated  ;  who  had  not  known  and  who  never  could 
know  any  death.  I  cannot  account  for  the  sweet  calm 
which  I  felt  through  all  these  weeks.  I  shed  no  tears ; 
I  did  not  seem  even  to  sorrow.  I  accepted  all,  as 
Annie  herself  accepted  it,  without  wonder,  without 
14 


210  SAKE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

murmur.  During  the  long  hours  of  this  last  night  I 
lived  over  every  hour  of  her  precious,  beautiful  life, 
as  I  had  known  and  shared  it,  until  the  whole  seemed 
to  me  one  fragrant  and  perfect  flower,  ready  to  be 
gathered  and  'worn  in  the  bosom  of  angels.  At  'est  I 
fell  asleep. 

I  was  wakened  by  a  low  murmur  from  the  baby, 
who  stirred  uneasily.  Annie's  hand  was  still  locked 
in  mine ;  as  I  sought  to  disengage  it  cautiously,  I  felt, 
with  a  sudden  horror,  that  the  fingers  were  lifeless. 
I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  bent  over  her;  she  did  not 
breathe.  Out  of  that  sweet  sleep  her  body  had  passed 
into  another  which  would  know  no  waking,  and  her 
soul  had  awakened  free.  Slowly  1  withdrew  the  little 
sleeping  baby  from  her  arms  and  carried  it  to  the 
nurse.  Then  I  went  to  Dr.  Fearing's  room ;  he 
had  slept  in  the  house  for  a  week  ;  I  found  him 
dressed,  but  asleep  on  a  lounge.  He  had  lain  in  this 
way,  he  told  me,  for  four  nights,  expecting  that  each 
would  be  the  last.  When  I  touched  him  on  the  shoul- 
der he  opened  his  eyes,  without  surprise  or  alarm, 
and  said,  — 

"  Did  she  wake .? " 

"No,"  I  replied,  and  that  was  all. 

The  day  was  just  breaking:  as  the  dark  gray  and 
red  tints  cleared  and  rolled  awa}',  and  left  a  pale 
yellow  sky,  the  morning  star,  which  I  could  see  from 
Annie's  bedside,  faded  and  melted  in  the  pure  ether. 
Even  while  I  was  looking  at  it  it  vanished,  and  I 
thought  that,  like  it,  Annie's  bright  soul,  disappearing 
from  my  sight,  had  blended  in  Eternal  Day. 

This  was  four  years  ago.     My  Aunt  Ann  died,  as 


WHOSE  WIFE    WAS  SHE?  211 

Annie  had  said  she  would,  in  a  very  few  months 
afterward.  My  uncle  came,  a  broken  and  trembling 
man,  to  live  with  us,  and  Edward  Neal  gladly  gave 
his  little  son  into  my  hands,  as  Annie  had  desired. 
He  went  abroad  immediately,  finding  it  utterly  impos- 
sible to  bear  the  sight  of  the  scenes  of  his  lost  hap- 
piness. He  came  back  in  two  years,  bringing  a  bright 
young  wife  with  him,  a  sunny-haired  English  girl,  who, 
he  said,  was  so  marvelously  like  Annie.  She  is  like 
the  Annie  whom  he  knew  ! 

Every  day  their  baby  boy  is  brought  to  our  house 
to  see  his  brother ;  but  I  think  two  children  of  one 
name  never  before  looked  so  unlike. 

My  little  Henry  is  the  centre  of  his  grandfather's 
life  and  of  mine.  He  is  a  pensive  child,  and  has  never 
been  strong;  but  his  beauty  and  sweetness  are  such 
that  we  often  tremble  when  we  look  in  his  face  and 
remember  Annie. 

George  Ware  is  still  in  India.  Every  ship  brings 
brave  sweet  letters,  and  gifts  for  the  baby.  I  sent 
him  the  little  paper  which  I  found  in  the  corner  of 
Annie's  jewel-case,  bearing  his  name.  I  knew  that  it 
was  for  him  when  I  saw  her  feeble  hands  laying  the 
baby's  hair  and  hers  together  in  the  locket. 

In  November  Annie's  grave  is  snowy  with  white 
chrysanthemums.  She  loved  them  better  than  any 
other  flowers,  and  I  have  made  the  little  hillock 
almost  into   a  thicket  of  them. 

In  George  Ware's  last  letter  he  wrote  :  — 
"  When   the  baby   is   ten   years  old   I   shall    come 
home.     He  will  not  need  me  till  then  ;    till  then,  he 
is  better  in  your  hands  alone  ;   after  that  I  can   help 
vou." 


THE  ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS. 


ERY  early  one  morning  in  March,  ten  years 
ago,  I  was  sitting  alone  on  one  of  the  crumbling 
ledges  of  the  Coliseum  :  larks  were  singing 
above  my  head  ;  wall-flowers  were  waving  at  my  feet ;  a 
procession  of  chanting  monks  was  walking  slowly 
around  the  great  cross  in  the  arena  below.  I  was  on 
the  highest  tier^  and  their  voices  reached  me  only  as  an 
indistinct  wail,  like  the  notes  of  a  distant  ^olian  harp  ; 
but  the  joyous  sun  and  sky  and  songs,  were  dark- 
ened and  dulled  by  their  presence.  A  strange  sad- 
ness oppressed  me,  and  I  sank  into  a  deep  reverie.  I 
do  not  know  how  long  I  had  been  sitting  there,  when 
I  was  suddenly  roused  by  a  ciy  of  pain,  or  terror, 
and  the  noise  of  falling  stones.  I  sprang  to  my  feet 
and,  looking  over,  saw  a  young  and  beautiful  woman 
lying  fearfully  near  the  edge  of  one  of  the  most  inse- 
cure of  the  projecting  ledges  on  the  tier  below  me  — 
the  very  one  from  which  I  had  myself  nearly  fallen, 
only  a  few  days  before,  in  stretching  over  after  some 
asphodels  which  were  beyond  my  reach. 

I  ran  down  as  fast  as  possible,  but  when  I  reached 
the  spot  she  had  fainted,  and  was  utterly  unconscious. 
She  was  alone  ;  I  could  see  no  other  human  being  in 


THE   ONE-LEGGED     PA  ATE 'US.  213 

^he  Coliseum.  The  chanting  mcnks  had  gone;  even 
the  bc;;i^ars  had  not  yet  come.  I  tried  in  vain  to  rouse 
her.  She  had  fallen  so  that  the  hot  sun  was  beating 
full  on  her  face.  1  dared  not  leave  her  there,  for  her 
first  unconscious  movement  might  be  such  that  she 
would  fall  over  the  edge.  But  I  saw  that  she  must 
have  shade  and  water,  or  die.  Every  instant  she 
grew  whiter  and  her  lips  looked  more  rigid.  I  shouted 
aloud,  and  only  the  echoes  answered  me,  as  if  in 
mockery.  A  little  lark  suddenly  flew  out  from  a  tuft 
of  yellow  wall-flower  close  by^  and  burst  into  a  swift 
carol  of  delight  as  he  soared  away.  At  last,  with 
great  eflbrts,  I  succeeded  in  dragging  her,  by  her 
feet  —  for  I  dared  not  venture  out  so  far  as  the  spot 
on  which  her  head  lay  —  to  a  safer  place,  and  into 
the  partial  shade  of  a  low  bush.  As  I  did  this,  one 
of  her  delicate  hands  was  scratched  and  torn  on  the 
rough  stones,  and  drops  of  blood  came  to  the  surface. 
In  the  other  hand  were  crushed  a  few  spikes  of  aspho- 
del, the  very  flowers,  no  doubt,  which  had  lured  me 
so  near  the  same  dangerous  brink.  It  seemed  im- 
possible to  go  away  and  leave  her,  but  it  was  cruel  to 
delay.  My  feet  felt  like  lead  as  I  ran  along  those 
dark  galleries  and  down  the  stone  flights  of  giddy 
stairs.  Just  in  the  entrance  stood  one  of  those  perti- 
nacious sellers  of  old  coins  and  bits  of  marble.  I 
threw  down  a  piece  of  silver  on  his  little  stand,  seized  a 
small  tin  basin  in  which  he  had  his  choicest  coins, 
emptied  them  on  the  ground,  and  saying,  in  my  poor 
Italian,  "  Lady  —  ill  —  water,"  I  had  filled  the  basin 
at  the  old  stone  fountain  near  by,  and  was  half  way 
up  the  first  flight  of  stairs  again,  before  he  knew  whal 
had  happened. 


214  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

When  I  reached  the  place  where  I  had  left  the 
beautiful  stranger  she  was  not  there.  Unutterable 
horror  seized  me.  Had  I,  after  all,  left  her  too  near 
that  crumbling  edge  ?  I  groaned  aloud  and  turned 
to  run  down.  A  feeble  voice  stopped  me  —  a  whisper 
rather  than  a  voice,  for  there  was  hardly  strength  to 
speak, — 

"  Who  is  there  ? " 

"  Oh,  thank  God,"  I  exclaimed,  "  you  are  not  dead  I  " 
and  I  sprang  to  the  next  of  the  cross  corridors,  from 
which  the  sound  had  come. 

She  was  there,  sitting  up,  leaning  against  the  wall. 
She  looked  almost  more  terrified  than  relieved  when 
she  saw  me.  I  bathed  her  face  and  hands  in  the 
water,  and  told  her  how  I  had  found  her  insensible, 
and  had  drawn  her  away  from  the  outer  edge  before  I 
had  gone  for  the  water.  She  did  not  speak  for  some 
moments,  but  looked  at  me  earnestly  and  steadily,  with 
tears  standing  in  her  large  blue  eyes. 

Then  she  said,  "  I  did  not  know  that  any  one  but 
myself  ever  came  to  the  Coliseum  so  early.  I  thought 
I  should  die  here  alone  ;  and  Robert  was  not  willing  I 
should  come." 

"  I  owe  you  my  life,"  she  added,  bursting  into 
hysterical  crying. 

Then  in  a  few  moments  she  half  laughed,  as  if  at 
some  droll  thought,  and  said,  "  But  how  could  you 
drag  me  ?  You  are  not  nearly  so  big  as  I  am.  The 
angels  must  have  helped  you  ; "  and  holding  up  the 
poor  crushed  asphodels,  she  went  on  :  "  As  soon  as  I 
came  to  myself,  I  saw  the  asphodels  in  my  hand,  and 
I  said,  '  Asphodel  for  burial,'  and  tried  to  throw  them 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  215 

away,  so  that  if  Robert  came  he  would  not  find  me 
dead  with  them  in  my  hand,  for  only  yesterday  he  said 
to  me,  '■  Please  never  pick  an  asphodel  —  I  can't  bear 
to  see  you  touch  one. ' " 

Slowly  I  soothed  her  and  she  recovered  her  color 
and  strength.  The  owner  of  the  basin,  followed  by  a 
half-dozen  chattering  vetturini,  had  climbed  up  to  us, 
but  we  had  peremptorily  sent  them  all  away.  It  was 
evident  that  she  was  not  seriously  hurt.  The  terror, 
rather  than  the  fall,  had  caused  her  fainting.  It  was 
probably  a  sudden  dizziness  which  had  come  as  she 
drew  back  and  turned  after  picking  the  flowers.  Had 
she  fallen  in  the  act  of  picking  them  she  must  have 
been  dashed  to  the  ground  below.  At  the  end  of  an 
hour  she  was  so  nearly  well,  that  she  walked  slowly 
down  the  long  stairs,  leaning  on  my  arm,  and  taking  fre- 
quent rests  by  the  way.  I  was  about  to  beckon  to  one 
of  the  vetturini,  when  she  said,  "  Oh  no  !  my  own  car- 
riage is  near  here,  up  by  the  gate  of  the  Palace  of  the 
Caesars.  I  rambled  on,  without  thinking  at  first  of 
coming  to  the  Coliseum  :  it  will  do  me  good  to  walk 
back  ;  every  moment  of  the  air  makes  me  feel  better." 

So  we  went  slowly  on,  up  the  solemn  hill,  arm  in 
arm  like  friends,  sitting  down  now  and  then  on  old 
fallen  columns  to  rest,  and  looking  back  at  the  silent, 
majestic  ruins,  which  were  brightened  almost  into  a 
look  of  life  under  the  the  vivid  sun.  My  companion 
spoke  little ;  the  reaction  after  her  fearful  shock  had 
set  in ;  but  every  few  moments  her  beautiful  eyes 
would  fill  with  tears  as  she  looked  in  my  face  and 
pressed  my  arm.  I  left  her  at  her  apartment  on  the 
Via  Felice  ;  my  own  was  a  mile  farther  on,  in   the 


2l6  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Piazza  del  Popolo,  and  I  would  not  let  her  dm  2  so 
far. 

"  It  grieves  me  not  to  go  with  you  to  your  door,'* 
she  said,  as  she  bade  me  good-bye,  "  but  I  shall  come 
and  see  you  to-morrow  and  bring  my  husband." 

"  No,  you  must  not,"  I  replied.  "  To-morrow  you 
will  be  wise  enough — or,  if  you  are  not  wise  enough, 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  me  because  I  ask  it  —  to 
lie  in  bed  all  day,  and  I  shall  come  very  early  in  the 
morning  to  see  how  you  are." 

She  turned  suddenly  on  the  carriage-steps,  and, 
leaning  both  her  hands  on  my  knees,  exclaimed,  in  a 
voice  full  of  emotion. 

"  Will  you  let  me  kiss  you  ?  Not  even  my  mother 
gave  me  what  you  have  given.  For  you  have  given 
me  back  life,  when  it  was  too  infinitely  precious  to 
lose.  Surely  you  will  not  think  me  presuming  ?  "  and 
her  cheek  flushed  a  little. 

"  Presuming !  my  dear  child,  I  loved  you  the  first 
moment  I  saw  you  lying  there  on  the  stones  ;  and  I 
am  almost  old  enough  to  be  your  mother,  too,"  I 
replied,  and  I  kissed  her  sweet  face  warmly. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  my  acquaintance  and 
friendship  with  Dora  Maynard. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  I  went  to  see  her. 
I  was  shown  into  a  room,  whose  whole  air  was  so  un- 
like that  of  a  Roman  apartment,  that  I  could  scarcely 
believe  I  had  not  been  transported  to  English  or 
A-merican  soil.  In  spite  of  its  elegance,  the  room  was 
as  home-like  and  cozy  as  if  it  nestled  in  the  Berkshire 
hills  or  stood  on  Worcestershire  meadows.  The  win- 
dows were  heavily  curtained,  and  the  furniture  covered 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  217 

mth  gay  chintz  of  a  white  ground,  with  moss-rose  buds 
thickly  scattered  over  it  between  broad  stripes  of  rose- 
pink.  The  same  chintz  was  fluted  all  around  the  cor- 
nice of  the  room,  making  the  walls  look  less  high  and 
stately ;  the  doorways,  also,  were  curtained  with  it. 
Great  wreaths  and  nodding  masses  of  pampas  grass 
were  above  the  doors ;  a  white  heron  and  a  rose- 
colored  spoonbill  stood  together  on  a  large  bracket  in 
one  corner,  and  a  huge  gray  owl  was  perched  on  what 
looked  like  a  simple  old  apple-tree  bough,  over  an  in- 
laid writing-table  which  stood  at  an  odd  slant  near  one 
of  the  windows.  Books  were  everywhere  —  in  low 
swinging  shelves,  suspended  by  large  green  cords  with 
heavy  tassels ;  on  low  bracket  shelves,  in  unexpected 
places,  with  deep  green  fringes  or  flutings  of  the 
chintz ;  in  piles  on  Moorish  stools  or  old  Venice 
chests.  Every  corner  looked  as  if  somebody  made  it 
a  special  haunt  and  had  just  gone  out.  On  a  round 
mosaic  table  stood  an  exqusite  black-and-gilt  Etruscan 
patera  filled  with  white  anemones  ;  on  another  table 
near  by  stood  a  silver  one  filled  with  the  same  flowers, 
pink  and  yellow.  Each  was  circled  round  the  edge 
with  fringing  masses  of  maiden-hair  fern.  Every 
lounge  and  chair  had  a  low,  broad  foot-stool  before  it, 
ruffled  with  the  chintz  ;  and  in  one  corner  of  the  room 
were  a  square  pink  and  white  and  green  Moorish  rug, 
with  ten  or  a  dozen  chintz-covered  pillows,  piled  up  in 
a  sort  of  chair-shaped  bed  upon  it,  and  a  fantastic 
ebony  box  standing  near,  the  lid  thrown  back,  and 
battledoors  and  shuttlecocks,  and  many  other  gay- 
colored  games,  tossed  in  confusion.  The  walls  were 
literally  full  of  exquisite  pictures  ;    no  very  large  or 


2l8  SAKE   HOLM'S  STORIES, 

rare  ones,  all  good  for  every- day  living  ;  some  fine  old 
etchings,  exquisite  water-colors,  a  swarthy  Campagna 
herds-boy  with  a  peacock  feather  and  a  scarlet  ribbon 
in  his  black  hat,  and  for  a  companion-picture,  the 
herds-boy  of  the  mountains,  fair,  rosy,  standing  out 
on  a  opaline  snow-peak,  with  a  glistening  Edelweiss 
in  his  hand  ;  opposite  these  a  large  picture  of  Haag's, 
a  camel  in  the  desert,  the  Arab  wife  and  baby  in  a 
fluttering  mass  of  basket  and  fringe  and  shawl  and 
scarf,  on  his  back  ;  the  Arab  father  walking  a  few  steps 
in  advance,  playing  on  musical  pipes,  his  tasseled  robe 
blowing  back  in  the  wind ;  on  one  side  of  this  a  Ven- 
ice front,  and  on  another  a  crag  of  Norway  pines  ; 
here  and  there,  small  leaves  of  photographs  from 
original  drawings  by  the  old  masters,  Leonardo,  Raph- 
ael, Titian,  and  Luini  ;  and  everywhere,  in  all  possible 
and  impossible  places,  flowers  and  vines.  I  never  saw 
walls  so  decorated.  Yellow  wall-flowers  waved  above 
the  picture  of  the  Norway  pines  ;  great  scarlet  this- 
tles branched  out  each  side  of  the  Venetian  palace  ; 
cool  maiden-hair  ferns  seemed  to  be  growing  all  around 
the  glowing  crimson  and  yellow  picture  of  the  Arabs 
in  the  Desert.  Afterward  I  learned  the  secret  of  this 
beautiful  effect ;  large,  flat,  wide-mouthed  bottles,  filled 
with  water,  were  hung  on  the  backs  of  the  picture 
frames,  and  in  these  the  vines  and  flowers  were  grow- 
ing ;  only  a  worshipper  of  flowers  would  have  devised 
this  simple  method  of  at  once  enshrining  them,  and 
adorning  the  pictures. 

In  one  of  the  windows  stood  a  superbly-carved  gilt 
table,  oblong,  and  with  curioush'-twisted  legs  which 
bent  inward  and  met  a  small    central  shelf  half-way 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  21  9 

between  the  top  and  the  floor,  then  spread  out  again 
into  four  strange  claw-like  vases,  which  bore  each  two 
golden  lilies  standing  upright.  On  this  stood  the  most 
singular  piece  of  wood-carving  I  ever  saw.  It  was  of 
very  light  wood,  almost  yellow  in  tint ;  it  looked  like 
rough  vine  trellises  with  vines  clambering  over  them  ; 
its  base  was  surrounded  by  a  thick  bed  of  purple 
anemones ;  the  smaller  shelf  below  was  also  filled 
with  purple  anemones,  and  each  of  the  golden  lilies 
held  all  the  purple  anemones  it  could  —  not  a  shade 
of  any  other  color  but  the  purple  and  gold  —  and  ris- 
ing above  them  the  odd  vine  trellises  in  the  pale  yellow 
wood.  As  I  stood  looking  at  this  in  mute  wonder  and 
delight,  but  sorely  perplexed  to  make  out  the  design 
of  the  carving,  I  heard  a  step  behind  me.  I  turned 
and  saw,  not  my  new  friend,  as  I  had  expected,  but 
her  husband.  I  thought,  in  that  first  instant,  I  had 
never  seen  a  manlier  face  and  form,  and  I  think  so  to- 
day. Robert  Maynard  was  not  tall ;  he  was  not  hand- 
some ;  but  he  had  a  lithe  figure,  square-shouldered, 
straight,  strong,  vitalized  to  the  last  fibre  with  the 
swift  currents  of  absolutely  healthy  blood,  and  the 
still  swifter  currents  of  a  passionate  and  pure  man- 
hood. His  eyes  were  blue,  his  hair  and  full  beard  of 
the  bright-brown  yellow  which  we  call,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  Saxon.  He  came  very  quickly  toward  me 
with  both  hands  outstretched  and  began  to  speak. 
"  My  dear  madam,"  he  said,  but  his  voice  broke,  and 
with  a  sudden,  uncontrollable  impulse,  he  turned  his 
back  full  upon  me  for  a  second,  and  passed  his  right 
band  over  his  eyes.  The  next  instant  he  recovered 
Uimself  and  went  on. 


220  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  will  wonder  that  I  can't  speak, 
and  I  do  not  believe  you  will  ever  wonder  that  I  do 
not  thank  you  —  I  never  shall,"  and  he  raised  both  my 
hands  to  his  lips. 

"  Dora  is  in  bed  as  you  bade  her  to  be,"  he  contin- 
ued. *'  She  is  well,  but  very  weak.  She  wants  to  see 
you  immediately,  and  she  has  forbidden  me  to  come 
back  to  her  room  without  you.  I  think,  perhaps,"  he 
added  hesitatingly,  "  she  is  not  yet  quite  calm  enough 
to  talk  long.  Forgive  me  for  saying  it.  I  know  you 
love  her  already." 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  replied  I,  "  as  if  I  had  known  her 
all  my  life.  I  will  not  stay  long ; "  and  I  followed 
him  through  a  small  dining-room,  also  gay  with  flowers 
and  vines,  to  a  little  room  which  had  one  side  almost 
wholly  of  glass  and  opened  on  a  loggia  full  of  orange- 
trees  and  oleanders,  geraniums  and  roses.  I  will  not 
describe  Dora  Maynard's  bed-room.  It  was  the  dainty 
room  of  a  dainty  woman,  but  spiritualized  and  indi- 
vidualized and  made  wonderful,  just  as  her  sitting- 
room  was,  by  a  creative  touch  and  a  magnetic  pres- 
ence such  as  few  women  possess.  I  believe  that  she 
could  not  be  for  twenty-four  hours  in  the  barrenest  and 
ugliest  room  possible,  without  contriving  to  diffuse  a 
certain  enchantment  through  all  its  emptiness. 

She  looked  far  more  beautiful  this  morning  than  she 
had  looked  the  day  before.  I  never  forgot  the  picture 
of  her  face  as  I  saw  it  then,  lying  on  the  white  pillow 
and  turned  toward  the  door,  with  the  eager  expression 
which  her  waiting  for  me  had  given  it.  Neither  of  us 
spoke  for  some  seconds,  and  when  we  did  speak  we 
took  refuge  in  commonplaces.     Our  hearts  were  too 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  221 

fiill  —  mine  with  a  sudden  and  hardly  explicable  over- 
flow of  affection  toward  this  beautiful  being  whom  I 
had  saved  from  dying  ;  hers  with  a  like  affection  for 
me,  heightened  a  thousand  fold  by  the  intense  love  of 
love  and  of  living  that  filled  her  whole  soul  and  made 
her  gratitude  to  me  partake  almost  of  the  nature  of 
adoration.  I  think  it  was  years  before  she  could  see 
me  without  recalling  the  whole  scene  so  vividly  that 
tears  would  fill  her  eyes.  Often  she  would  suddenly 
seize  both  my  hands  in  hers,  kiss  them  and  say,  "  Oh ! 
but  for  these  dear,  strong,  brave  little  hands,  where 
should  I  be  !  "  And  whenever  we  parted  for  a  length 
of  time  she  was  overshadowed  by  presentiment.  "I 
know  it  is  superstitious  and  silly,"  she  would  say,  "  but 
I  cannot  shake  off  the  feeling  that  I  am  safer  in  the 
same  town  with  you.  I  believe  if  any  harm  were  to 
threaten  me  you  would  be  near." 

But  the  story  I  am  to  tell  now  is  not  the  story  of 
Dora  Maynard's  life  after  I  knew  her,  nor  of  our 
friendship  and  love  for  each  other,  rare  and  beautiful 
as  they  were.  It  is  the  story  of  her  girlhood,  and  of 
the  strange  wood-carving  which  stood  on  the  gilded 
table  in  the  bed  of  purple  anemones. 

One  morning  in  April,  as  I  climbed  the  long  stone 
stairs  which  led  to  her  apartment,  I  met  Anita,  the 
flower-woman  who  carried  flowers  to  her  every  day. 
Anita  looked  troubled. 

'•What  is  the  matter,  my  Anita?"  said  I ;  "istha 
Signora  ill  ?  " 

"Ah  no,  thank  the  Blessed  Virgin!"  said  Anita; 
■*the  dearest,  most  beautiful  of  Signoras  is  well,  but 
I  am  obliged  to  tell  her  to-day  that  there  are  no  more 


222  SAKE  HOLM'S  STOJilES, 

anemones.  Biagio  went  yesterday  to  the  farthest  cor- 
ner of  the  Villa  Doria,  to  a  dark  shady  spot  beyond 
the  Dove-Cote,  which  the  strangers  know  not,  hoping 
to  find  some ;  but  the  heavy  rains  had  beaten  them  all 
down  —  there  is  no  longer  one  left.  And  the  Signora 
had  tears  in  her  eyes  when  I  told  her ;  and  she  did 
not  care  for  all  the  other  b'eautiful  flowers ;  she  said 
none  of  them  could  go  on  the  gold  table ;  never  yet 
has  the  Signora  put  any  flowers  on  the  gold  table 
except  the  purple  anemones,"  and  real  tears  stood  in 
old  Anita's  eyes. 

"  Why,  Anita,"  said  I,  '•  I  am  sure  some  other  flow- 
ers would  look  very  pretty  there.  I  do  not  believe  the 
Signora  will  be  unhappy  about  it." 

Anita  shook  her  head  and  half  smiled  with  a  look 
of  pitying  compassion. 

"  But,  Signora,  you  do  not  know  ;  that  dearest  and 
most  beautiful  of  Signoras  has  visions  from  the  angels 
about  her  flowers.  Holy  Virgin  !  if  she  would  but 
come  and  hang  flowers  around  the  Bambino  in  our 
church !  None  of  the  Holy  Sisters  can  so  weave 
them  as  she  does ;  she  makes  Festa  forever  in  the 
house  for  the  Signor  ;  and  I  think,  Signora/'  cross- 
ing herself  and  looking  sharply  at  me,  "perhaps  the 
gold  table  is  the  shrine  of  her  religion  :  does  the 
Signora  know  ? " 

I  could  not  help  laughing.  "  Oh  no,  Anita,"  I  said  ; 
"we  do  not  have  shrines  in  our  religion." 

Anita's  face  clouded.  "  Iddio  mio  !  "  she  said,  "  but 
the  Virgin  will  keep  the  dearest  Signora  Maynardi. 
Biagio  and  I  have  vowed  to  keep  a  candle  ahva3's 
burning  for  her  in  Ara  Coeli !    The  dearest,  most  beau- 


THE   OIVE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  223 

tiful  of  Signoras ; "  and  Anita  walked  disconsolately 
on,  down  the  stairs. 

I  found  Dora  kneeling  before  the  ''  gold  table," 
arranging  great  masses  of  maiden-hair  fern  around 
the  wood  carving  and  in  the  shelf  below.  As  I  saw 
the  rapt  and  ecstatic  expression  of  her  face,  I  under- 
stood why  Anita  had  believed  the  gold  table  to  be  a 
shrine. 

"  They  do  not  suit  it  like  the  anemones,"  said  she, 
sadly ;  "  and  I  can  have  no  more  anemones  this  year." 

"  So  poor  Anita  told  me  just  now  on  the  stairs," 
replied  I.  "  She  was  almost  crying,  she  was  so  sorry 
she  could  not  get  them  for  you.  But  I  am  sure,  dear, 
the  ferns  are  beautiful  on  it.  I  think  the  pale  green 
looks  even  better  than  the  purple  with  the  gold  and 
the  pale  yellow  wood." 

"  I  like  the  purple  best,"  said  Dora ;  "  besides,  we 
always  had  purple  at  home,"  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  Then,  turning  suddenly  to  me,  she  said,  "  Why 
have  you  never  asked  me  what  this  is .?  I  know  you 
must  have  wondered  :  it  looks  so  strange  —  this  poor 
little  clumsy  bit  of  American  pine,  on  my  gilt  table 
shrined  with  flowers  !  " 

"Yes,  I  have  wondered,  I  acknowledge,  for  I  could 
not  make  out  the  design,"  I  replied  ;  "but  I  thought 
it  might  have  some  story  connected  with  it,  which  you 
would  tell  me  if  you  wished  I  should  know.  I  did 
not  think  it  clumsy  ;  I  think  it  is  fantastic,  and  has  a 
certain  sort  of  weird  life-likeness. about  it." 

"  Do  you  really  think  it  has  any  life-like  look  about 
.t?"  and  Dora's  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  "  I  think 
W),  but  I  supposed  nobody  else  could  see   anything 


224  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

in  it.  No  one  of  my  acquaintance  has  ever  alluded 
to  it,"  continued  she,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  "  but 
I  see  them  trying  to  scrutinize  it  slyly  when  they  are 
not  observed.  As  for  poor  old  Anita,  I  believe  she 
thinks  it  is  our  Fetish.  She  walks  round  it  on  tiptoe 
with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  apron." 

"  But  now,"  she  continued,  "  I  will  show  you  the 
same  design  in  something  else  \ "  and  she  led  the  way 
through  her  own  bedroom  to  Robert's,  which  was  be- 
yond. On  the  threshold  she  paused,  and  kissing  me, 
said  :  "  If  you  can  stay  with  me  to-day,  I  will  tell  you 
the  whole  story,  dear  ;  but  I  want  you  to  look  at  this 
chintz  first."  Then  she  walked  to  the  window,  and  draw- 
ing out  one  of  the  curtains  to  its  full  width,  held  it  up 
for  me  to  see.  It  was  a  green  and  white  chintz,  evi- 
dently of  cheap  quality.  At  first  I  did  not  distinguish 
any  meaning  in  the  pattern  ;  presently  I  saw  that  the 
figures  were  all  of  vines  and  vine-leaves,  linked  in  a 
fantastic  fashion  together,  like  those  in  the  wood-carv- 
ing on  the  gold  table. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  "I  see;  it  is  exactly  like  the 
carving,  only  it  looks  difierent,  being  on  a  flat  sur- 
face." 

Dora  did  not  speak  ;  she  was  gazing  absently  at  the 
chintz  she  held  in  her  hand.  Her  face  looked  as  if 
her  soul  were  miles  and  vears  awav.  Presentlv  I  saw 
a  tear  roll  down  her  cheek.  I  touched  her  hand. 
She  started,  and  smiling  sweetly,  said  :  "  Oh  !  forgive 
me.  Don't  think  I  am  crying  for  any  sorrow  ;  it  is 
for  joy.  I  am  so  happy,  and  my  life  has  been  so 
wonderful.  Now  would  you  really  have  patience  to 
listen  to  a  long  story.?"  she  said,  beseechingly;  "a 


TFTE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  225 

long  story  all  about  me  —  and  —  Robert  ?  I  have 
been  wanting  to  tell  you  ever  since  I  knew  you.  I 
think  you  ought  to  know  all  about  us." 

For  my  answer,  I  sank  into  a  large  chair,  drew  her 
down  into  my  lap,  and  said :  "  Begin,  you  dearest 
child.  Nothing  could  give  me  such  pleasure.  Begin 
at  the  beoinnins." 

She  slipped  from  my  lap  to  a  low  footstool  at  my 
feet,  and  resting  both  her  arms  on  my  knees  in  a 
graceful  way  she  had,  looked  up  into  my  face,  and 
began  by  a  sentence  which  made  me  start. 

"  I  used  to  work  in  a  factory."  My  start  was  so 
undisguised,  so  uncontrollable,  that  Dora  drew  back 
and  her  cheeks  turned  red. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  you  before." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  beautiful,  marvellous  child !  "  I 
exclaimed ;  "  you  cannot  so  misjudge  me.  I  w^as 
startled  only  because  you  had  always  seemed  to  me 
so  much  like  one  born  to  all  possible  luxury.  I 
supposed  you  had  been  nurtured  on  beauty." 

"  So  I  have  been,"  she  replied,  earnestly,  smiling 
through  tears ;  "  nevertheless,  three  years  ago  I  was 
working  in  a  factory  in  America." 

I  did  not  interrupt  her  again  ;  hour  after  hour 
passed  by ;  not  until  twilight  was  deepening  into  dusk 
did  the  story  come  to  end.  I  shall  try  to  give  it  in 
Dora's  own  words  —  their  simplicity  adds  so  much  to 
it ;  but  I  cannot  give  the  heightened  effect  with  which 
they  fell  upon  my  ears  as  I  looked  down  into  her  sweet 
child- woman's  face. 

"I  do  not  remember   much    about    mamma.     It  is 
itrange,   too,    that  I    do   not,  because  I  was  thirteen 
15 


226  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

when    she    died ;  but  I  always  loved  papa  best,  and 
stayed  all  the  time  I  could  in  his  study.     Mamma  was 
very   pretty ;  the  prettiest  woman  I  ever  saw ;  but  I 
don't  know  how  it  was,  all  her  prettiness  did  not  seem 
to  make  papa  care  about  her.     He  was  a  clergyman 
' —  an  Episcopal  clergyman  —  and  his  father  and  his 
father's  father  had   been   too  ;  so  you  see  for   three 
whole   generations  it  had  been  all  books  and  study  in 
the   family ;  but    mamma's  father  was   a  farmer,  and 
mamma  was  stronger  than  papa ;  she  liked  to  live  in 
the  country  and  be  out  of  doors,  which  he  hated.     I 
think  I  know  now  just  how  it  all  was  ;  but  it  used  to 
puzzle  me  till  I  grew  up.     When  I  was  sixteen,  my 
Aunt  Abby,  papa's  sister,  told  me  that  mamma  was 
said  to  be  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  whole  State, 
and  that  papa  fell  so  in  love  with  her  when  he  was 
just  out   of   college,  that   he    came  very  near   dying 
because  his  father  did  not  wish  them  to  be  married. 
Poor  papa !  it  was  just  so  always  with  him  ;  he  had 
such  a  poor  feeble    body   that  any  trouble  or  worry 
made  him  ill.     I  can  see  now  that  it  was  because  he 
and  all  his  family  had  been  such  scholars,  and  lived 
in  the  house,  and  sat  still  all  their  lives  ;  their  bodies 
were  not  good  for  anything  :  and  I  am  thankful  enough 
that  my  body  is  like  mamma's  ;  but  I  don't  know  what 
good    it  would  do   me,  either,    if   dear   papa    hadn't 
taught  me  all   his  ways  of  seeing  things  and  feeling 
thinss.     Mamma  never  seemed   to  care    much  about 
anything,  except  when  Dick  or  Abby  were  sick,  and 
^he  always  used  to  go  to  sleep  in  church  while  papa 
was  saying   the   most  beautiful   things  ;  sometimes  it 
used  to  make  me  almost  hate  her.     I   hated  every- 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  22/ 

body  that  didn't  listen  to  him.  But  Aunt  Abby  said 
once  that  very  few  people  could  understand  him,  and 
that  was  the  reason  we  never  stayed  long  in  one  place. 
People  got  tired  of  hearing  him  preach.  This  made 
me  so  angry  I  did  not  speak  to  Aunt  Abby  for  two 
years,  except  when  I  was  obliged  to.  But  I  see  now 
that  she  was  right.  As  I  read  over  papa's  sermons 
I  see  that  they  would  seem  very  strange  to  common 
men  and  women.  He  saw  much  more  in  every  little 
thing  than  people  generally  do.  I  used  to  tell  him 
sometimes  he  '  saw  double,'  and  he  would  sigh  and 
say  that  the  world  was  blind,  and  did  not  see  half; 
he  never  could  take  any  minute  by  itself;  there  was 
the  past  to  cripple  it  and  the  future  to  shadow  it. 
Poor,  poor  papa !  I  really  think  I  have  learned  in 
a  very  strange  way  to  understand  his  capacity  for 
sadness.  I  understand  it  by  my  ow^n  capacity  for  joy. 
I  often  smile  to  think  how  I  used  to  accuse  him  of 
seeing  double,  for  it  is  the  very  thing  which  Robert 
says  to  me  again  and  again  when  a  sight  or  a  sound 
gives  me  such  intense  pleasure  that  I  can  hardly  bear 
it.  And  I  see  that  while  I  have  nearly  the  same 
sensitiveness  to  all  impressions  from  things  or  from 
people  which  he  had,  my  body  compels  the  impressions 
to  be  joyous.  This  is  what  I  owe  mamma.  If  papa 
could  have  been  well  and  strong,  he  would  have  sung 
joy  such  as  no  poet  has  ever  sung  since  suns  began  to 
shine. 

' '  But  most  that  he  wrote  was  sad  ;  and  I  am  afraid 
most  that  he  taught  the  people  was  sad  too,  or,  at  any 
rate,  not  hopeful  as  it  ought  to  be  in  this  beautiful, 
blessed  world,  which  '  God  so  loved  '  and  loves.     So 


228  SAKE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

perhaps  it  was  better  for  people  that  papa  never 
preached  in  any  one  parish  more  than  three  or  four 
years.  Probably  God  took  care  to  send  next  a  man 
who  would  make  everybody  take  courage  again.  How- 
ever, it  was  very  hard  for  mamma,  and  very  hard  for 
us  ;  although  for  us  there  was  excitement  and  fun  in 
getting  into  new  houses  and  getting  acquainted  with 
new  people ;  but  the  worst  thing  was  that  we  had  very 
little  money,  and  it  used  it  up  so  to  move  from  place 
to  place,  and  buy  new  things.  I  knew  all  about  this 
before  I  was  ten  years  old  as  well  as  if  I  had  been 
forty ;  and  by  the  time  I  was  twelve,  I  was  a  perfect 
little  miser  of  both  clothes  and  money  —  I  had  such 
a  horror  of  the  terrible  days,  which  sometimes  came, 
when  we  sorely  wanted  both. 

"  Early  in  the  spring  after  I  was  thirteen  —  my 
birthday  was  in  December  —  we  went  to  live  in  a 
little  place  called  Maynard's  Mills.  It  was  a  suburban 
village  near  the  largest  manufacturing  town  in  the 
State.  The  other  two  homes  which  I  could  remember 
had  been  very  small  country  villages,  where  none  of 
the  people  were  rich,  and  only  a  few  attended  the 
Episcopal  church.  In  Maynard's  Mills  there  were 
many  rich  people,  and  almost  everybody  went  to  our 
church.  The  whole  place  was  owned  by  Mr.  Maynard, 
Robert's  father.  He  had  gone  out  there  to  live  near 
his  mills,  and  the  place  was  so  beautiful  that  family 
after  family  of  the  rich  mill-owners  had  moved  out 
there.  At  first  they  used  to  go  into  town  to  church  \ 
but  it  was  a  long  drive,  cold  in  winter  and  hot  in 
summer,  and  so  Mr.  Maynard  built  a  beautiful  chapel 
Dear  his  house  and  sent  for  papa  to  come  and  preach 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  229 

in  it.  Mr.  Maynard  had  been  his  classmate  in  college 
and  loved  him  very  much,  just  because  they  were  'so 
different,'  papa  said,  and  I  think  it  must  have  been 
so,  for  Mr.  Maynard  is  the  merriest  man  I  ever  saw. 
He  laughs  as  soon  as  he  sees  you,  whether  there  is 
anything  to  laugh  at  or  not,  and  he  makes  you  feel 
just  like  laughing  yourself,  simply  by  asking  you  how 
you  do.  I  never  saw  papa  so  happy  as  he  was  the  day 
Mr.  Maynard's  letter  came  asking  him  to  go  there. 

"  It  was  a  very  kind  letter,  and  the  salary,  of  which 
Mr.  Maynard  spoke  almost  apologetically,  saying  that 
it  would  be  increased  in  a  few  years  as  the  village 
grew,  was  more  than  twice  as  large  as  papa  had  ever 
received,  and  there  was  a  nice  parsonage  besides. 

*•'  We  moved  in  April.  I  always  associate  our  mov- 
ing with  blue  hepaticas,  for  I  carried  a  great  basketful 
of  them,  which  I  had  taken  up  roots  and  all,  in  the 
woods,  the  morning  we  set  out  ;  and  what  should  I 
find  under  paj^a's  study  window  but  a  great  thicket 
of  wild  ferns  and  cornel  bushes  growing  —  just  the 
place  for  my  hepaticas,  and  I  set  them  out  before  I 
went  into  the  house.  The  house  was  very  small,  but 
it  was  so  pretty  that  papa  and  I  were  perfectly  happy 
in  it.  Poor  mamma  did  not  like  the  closets  and  the 
kitchen.  The  house  we  had  left  was  a  huge,  old- 
fashioned  house,  with  four  square  rooms  on  a  floor  ; 
one  of  these  was  the  kitchen,  and  mamma  missed  it 
very  much.  But  she  lived  only  a  few  days  after  we 
moved  in.  I  never  knew  of  what  disease  she  died. 
She  was  ill  but  a  few  hours  and  suffered  great  pain. 
They  said  she  had  injured  herself  in  some  way  in 
lifting  the   furniture.     It  was    all    so  sudden  and    so 


230  SAKE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

terrible,  and  we  were  surrounded  by  such  confusion 
and  so  many  strange  faces,  that  I  do  not  remerriber 
anything  about  it  distinctly.  I  remember  the  funeral, 
and  the  great  masses  of  white  and  purple  flowers  all 
over  the  table  on  whicli  the  coffin  stood,  and  I  remem- 
ber how  strangely  papa's  face  looked. 

"  And  then  Aunt  Abby  came  to  live  with  us,  and 
we  settled  down  into  such  a  new,  different  life,  that  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  it  had  been  in  some  other  world 
that  I  had  known  mamma.  My  sister  Abby  was  two 
years  old,  and  my  darling  brother  Nat  was  ten,  when 
mamma  died.  It  is  very  hard  to  talk  about  dear  Nat, 
I  love  him  so.  He  is  so  precious,  and  his  sorrow  is 
so  sacred,  that  I  am  hardly  willing  to  let  strangers 
pity  him,  ever  so  tenderly.  When  he  was  a  baby  he 
sprang  out  of  mamma's  lap,  one  day,  as  she  was 
reaching  up  to  take  something  from  the  mantel-piece. 
He  fell  on  the  andiron-head  and  injured  his  spine  so 
that  he  could  never  walk.  He  is  twenty  years  old 
now ;  his  head  and  chest  and  arms  are  about  as  large 
as  those  of  a  boy  of  sixteen,  but  all  the  rest  of  his 
poor  body  is  shrunken  and  withered  ;  he  has  never 
stood  upright,  and  he  cannot  turn  himself  in  his  chair 
or  bed.  But  his  head  and  face  are  beautiful.  It  is 
not  only  I  who  think  so.  Artists  have  seen  him  sitting 
at  the  window,  or  being  drawn  about  in  his  little  wagon, 
and  have  begged  permission  to  paint  his  face,  for  the 
face  of  a  saint  or  of  a  hero,  in  their  pictures.  It  is  the 
face  of  both  saint  and  hero  ;  and  after  all  that  must  be 
always  so,  I  think;  for  how  could  a  man  be  one  with- 
out being  the  other  ?  I  know  some  very  brave  men 
have   been  veiy   bad   men,  but  I  do  not   call   them 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  23  I 

heroes.  Nat  is  the  only  hero  I  ever  knew  ;  if  I  were 
a  poet  I  would  write  a  poem  about  him.  It  should  be 
called  'The  Crownless  King.'  Oh,  how  he  does 
reign  over  suffering,  and  loss,  and  humiliation,  and 
what  a  sweet  kingdom  spreads  out  around  him  wher- 
ever he  is  !  He  does  everybody  good,  and  everybody 
loves  him.  Poor  papa  used  to  say  sometimes,  '  My 
son  is  a  far  better  preacher  than  I ;  see,  I  sit  at  his 
feet  to  learn  ; '  and  it  was  true.  Even  when  he  was 
a  little  fellow  Nat  used  to  keep  up  papa's  courage. 
Many  a  time,  when  papa  looked  dark  and  sad,  Nat 
would  call  to  him,  '  Dear  papa,  will  you  carry  me  up 
and  down  a  little  while  by  the  window  ?  I  want  the 
sky. '  Then,  while  they  were  walking,  Nat  would  say 
such  sweet  things  about  the  beauty  of  the  sky,  and  the 
delight  it  gave  him  to  see  it,  that  the  tears  would 
come  into  papa's  eyes,  and  he  would  say,  'Who  would 
think  that  we  could  ever  forget  for  a  moment  this  sky 
which  is  above  us .'' '  and  he  would  go  away  to  his  study 
comforted. 

"  As  I  said,  when  mamma  died,  Nat  was  ten  and  I 
was  thirteen.  From  that  time  I  took  all  the  care  of 
him.  Aunt  Abby,  was  not  strong,  and  she  did  not 
love  children.  She  was  just,  and  she  meant  to  be 
always  kind  to  us  ;  but  that  sort  of  kindness  is  quite 
different  from  loving-kindness.  Poor  Nat  never  could 
bear  to  have  her  do  anything  for  him,  and  so  it  very 
soon  came  about  that  I  took  all  the  care  of  him.  It 
was  not  hard,  for  he  was  never  ill ;  he  suffered  constant 
pain  but  in  spite  of  it  he  was  always  cheerful,  always 
said  he  felt  well,  and  never  had  any  of  the  small 
iilments  and  diseases  which  healthy  children  are  apt 


232  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

to  have.  'I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  without  the 
ache,  Dot,'  he  said  to  me  one  day  when  he  was  only 
twelve  years  old.  '  I've  got  so  used  to  it,  I  should 
miss  it  as  much  as  I  should  miss  you' said  it  helps  me 
to  be  good.  I  don't  think  I  should  dare  have  it  go 
away,'  A  few  years  later  he  wrote  some  lovely  little 
verses  called  '  The  Angel  of  Pain,'  which  I  will  show 
you.  Our  life  after  mamma  died  was  very  happy  and 
peaceful.  It  makes  me  grieve  for  her,  even  now,  to 
think  how  little  she  was  missed.  We  had  all  loved 
her.  She  was  always  pleasant  and  good,  and  took  the 
best  possible  care  of  us  and  of  everything ;  but  she 
was  not  one  of  those  persons  whose  presence  makes 
itself  necessary  to  people.  It  seems  hardly  right  to 
say  such  a  thing,  but  I  really  think  papa  seemed  more 
cheerful  without  her,  after  the  first.  I  think  that  while 
she  lived  he  was  always  groping  and  reaching  after 
something  in  her  which  did  not  exist.  The  hourly  sight 
of  her  reminded  him  hourly  of  his  ideal  of  what  a  wife 
might  be,  and  he  was  forever  hoping  that  she  might 
come  a  little  nearer  to  it  —  enter  a  little  more  into 
his  world  of  thought  and  feeling.  This  is  how  it 
has  looked  to  me  since  I  have  been  married,  and  can 
understand  just  how  terrible  it  must  be  to  have  the 
person  whom  you  love  best,  disappoint  you  in  any  wa}'. 
"  Nat  was  in  all  my  classes  in  school.  Although  he 
was  three  years  younger  he  was  much  cleverer  than  I, 
and  had  had  nothing  to  do,  poor  dear,  all  his  life,  but 
lie  in  his  chair  and  read.  I  used  to  draw  him  to  and 
from  school  in  a  little  wagon  ;  the  bo3'S  lifted  it  up 
and  down  the  steps  so  carefully  it  did  not  jar  him  ; 
and  papa  had  a  special  desk  built  for  him,  so  high 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  233 

that  part  of  the  wagon  could  roll  under  it,  and  the  lid 
could  rest  just  wherever  Nat  needed  it  for  writing  or 
studying.  When  we  went  home,  there  was  always 
a  sort  of  procession  with  us  ;  a  good  many  of  the 
children  had  to  go  in  the  same  direction,  but  many 
went  simply  to  walk  by  Nat's  wagon  and  talk  with  him. 
Whenever  there  was  a  picnic  or  a  nutting  frolic,  we 
always  took  him  ;  the  boys  took  turns  in  drawing  him  ; 
nobody  would  hear  a  word  of  his  staying  at  home  ;  he 
used  to  sit  in  his  wagon  and  look  on  while  the  rest 
played,  and  sometimes  he  would  be  left  all  alone  for 
a  while,  but  his  face  was  always  the  happiest  one  there. 
At  school  the  boys  used  to  tell  him  everything,  and 
leave  things  to  his  decision.  Almost  every  day,  some- 
body would  call  out,  at  recess  or  intermission,  'Well, 
I'll  leave  it  to  Nat '  —  or  'I'll  tell  Nat.'  One  day 
somebody  shouted,  '  Take  it  before  the  king  —  let's 
call  him  King  Nat.'  But  it  almost  made  Nat  cry.  He 
exclaimed, '  Oh,  boys,  please  don't  ever  say  that  again ; ' 
and  they  never  did.  He  had  a  great  deal  more  influ- 
ence over  them  than  any  teacher.  He  could  make 
them  do  anything.  Sometimes  the  teachers  themselves 
used  to  come  to  him  privately  and  tell  him  of  things 
they  did  not  like,  which  the  boys  were  getting  into  the 
way  of  doing,  and  ask  him  to  try  to  stop  them.  It 
Nat  had  not  been  a  saint,  as  I  said  before,  all  this 
would  have  spoiled  him  ;  but  he  never  thought  of  its 
being  any  special  power  in  him.  He  used  to  think  it 
was  only  because  the  boys  were  so  kind-hearted  that 
they  could  not  bear  to  refuse  any  request  which  a  poor 
iripple  made. 
"  When  I  think  how  happy  those  days  were  and  hovr 


234  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

fast  the  darkest  days  of  our  lives  were  drawing  near, 
it  makes  me  shrink  from  happiness  almost  as  much  as 
from  grief.  It  seems  only  grief's  forerunner.  On  the 
evening  of  my  sixteenth  birthday,  we  were  all  having  a 
very  merry  time  in  papa's  study,  popping  corn  over 
the  open  fire.  We  had  wheeled  Nat  near  the  fire, 
and  tied  the  corn-popper  on  a  broom-handle,  so  that 
he  could  shake  the  popper  himself;  and  I  never  saw 
him  laugh  so  heartily  at  anything.  Papa  laughed  too, 
quite  loud,  which  was  a  thing  that  did  not  happen 
many  times  a  year.  It  was  the  last  time  we  heard  the 
full  sound  of  dear  papa's  voice.  Late  that  night  he 
was  called  out  to  see  a  poor  man,  one  of  the  factory 
operatives,  who  was  dying.  It  was  a  terrible  snow- 
storm, and  papa  had  been  so  heated  over  the  fire  and 
in  playing  with  us  that  he  took  a  severe  cold.  The 
next  morning  he  could  not  speak  aloud.  The  doctor 
said  it  was  an  acute  bronchitis  and  would  pass  off";  but 
it  did  not,  and  in  a  very  few  weeks  it  was  clear  that 
he  was  dying  of  consumption.  Probably  the  cold  only 
developed  a  disease  which  had  been  long  there. 

"I  can't  tell  you  about  the  last  months  of  papa's 
life.  I  think  I  shall  never  be  able  to  speak  of  them. 
We  saw  much  worse  days  afterward,  but  none  that 
seemed  to  me  so  hard  to  bear ;  even  when  I  thought 
Nat  and  I  would  have  to  go  to  the  almshouse  it  was  not 
so  hard.  The  love  which  most  children  divide  between 
father  and  mother  I  concentrated  on  my  father.  I 
'oved  him  with  an  adoration  akin  to  that  which  a 
woman  feels  for  her  husband,  and  with  the  utmost  of 
filial  love  added.  Nat  loved  him  almost  as  much. 
The  most  touching  thing  I  ever  saw  was   to  see  Nat 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  235 

from  his  wagon,  or  wheeled  chair,  reaching  out  to  take 
care  of  papa  in  the  bed.  Nobody  else  could  give  him 
his  medicine  so  well ;  nobody  could  prepare  his  meals 
for  him,  after  he  was  too  weak  to  use  a  knife  and  fork, 
so  well  as  Nat.  How  he  could  do  all  this  with  only 
one  hand  —  for  he  could  not  bend  himself  in  his  chair 
enough  to  use  the  hand  farthest  from  the  bed  —  no- 
body could  understand  ;  but  he  did,  and  the  very  last 
mouthful  of  wine  papa  swallowed  he  took,  the  morning 
he  died,  from  poor  Nat's  brave  little  hand,  which  did 
not  shake  nor  falter,  though  the  tears  were  rolling 
down  his  cheeks. 

"  Papa  lived  nearly  a  year ;  but  the  last  nine  months 
he  was  in  bed,  and  he  never  spoke  a  loud  word  after 
that  birthday  night  when  we  had  been  so  happy  in  the 
study.  He  died  in  November,  on  a  dreary  stormy 
day.  I  never  shall  forget  it.  He  had  seemed  easier 
that  morning,  and  insisted  on  our  all  going  out  to 
breakfast  together  and  leaving  him  alone,  the  doors 
being  open  between  the  study  and  the  dining-room. 
We  had  hardly  seated  ourselves  at  the  table  when  his 
bell  rang.  Aunt  Abby  reached  him  first.  It  could 
not  have  been  a  minute,  but  he  did  not  know  her. 
For  the  first  and  only  time  in  my  life  I  forgot  Nat, 
and  was  out  of  the  room  when  I  heard  him  sob.  Dear 
Nat !  not  even  then  would  he  think  of  himself.  I 
turned  back.  'Oh,  don't  stop  to  take  me,  Dot,'  he 
said.  'Run  !'  But  I  could  not;  and  when  I  reached 
the  door,  pushing  his  chair  before  me,  all  was  over. 
However,  the  doctor  said  that,  even  if  we  had  been 
there  at  the  first,  papa  could  not  have  bid  us  good- 
by  ;  that  the  death  was  from  instantaneous  suffoca- 


236  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

tion,  and  that  he  probably  had  no  consciousness  of 
it  himself.  Papa's  life  had  been  insured  for  five 
thousand  dollars  and  he  had  saved,  during  the  three 
years  we  had  lived  at  Maynard's  Mills,  about  one 
thousand  more.  This  was  all  the  money  we  had  in 
the  world. 

"  Mr.  Maynard  had  been  ver}'  kind  throughout 
papa's  illness.  He  had  persuaded  the  church  to 
continue  the  salary;  every  day  he  had  sent  flowers, 
and  grapes,  and  wine,  and  game,  and  everything  he 
could  think  of  that  papa  could  eat ;  and,  what  was 
kindest  of  all,  he  had  come  almost  every  day  to  talk 
with  him  and  cheer  him  up.  But  he  did  not  mean  to 
let  his  kindness  stop  here.  The  day  after  the  funeral 
he  came  to  see  us,  to  propose  to  adopt  me.  I  forgot 
to  say  that  Aunt  Abby  was  to  be  married  soon  and 
would  take  little  Abby  with  her ;  so  they  were  provided 
for,  and  the  only  question  was  about  Nat  and  me. 

"  Fortunately,  dear  Nat  was  in  the  dining-room  and 
did  not  see  Mr.  Maynard  when  he  came.  I  have  told 
you  what  a  merry  man  Mr.  Maynard  is,  and  how  kind 
he  is,  but  he  is  also  a  very  obstinate  and  high-tempered 
man.  He  had  never  loved  Nat ;  I  do  not  know  why ; 
I  think  he  was  the  only  human  being  who  ever  failed 
to  love  him.  He  pitied  him,  of  course  ;  but  he  was 
so  repelled  by  his  deformity  that  he  could  not  love 
him.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Maynard  said,  '  Now,  my  dear 
child,  you  must  come  to  my  house  and  make  it  3'our 
home  always,'  I  saw  that  he  intended  to  separate  me 
from  Nat. 

"I  replied,  *I  cannot  leave  Nat,  Mr.  Maynard.  I 
Jiank  you  very  much ;    you  are   very  good ;    but   it 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  2^7 

would  break  my  heart  to  leave  him,  and  I  am  sure 
papa  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  should  do  it.' 

"  He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  He  had  fore- 
seen this,  and  come  prepared  for  it ;  but  he  saw  that  I 
promised  to  prove  even  more  impracticable  than  he 
had  feared. 

"  '  You  have  sacrificed  your  whole  life  already  to 
that  miserable  unfortunate  boy,'  he  said, '  and  I  always 
told  your  father  he  ought  not  to  permit  it.' 

"  At  this  I  grew  angry,  and  I  replied :  — 

"  *  Mr.  Maynard,  Nat  does  more  for  us  all,  every 
hour  of  his  life,  than  we  ever  could  do  for  him :  dear 
papa  used  to  say  so  too.' 

"  No  doubt  papa  had  said  this  very  thing  to  Mr. 
Maynard  often,  for  tears  came  into  his  eyes  and  he 
went  on :  — 

"  *  I  know,  I  know  —  he  is  a  wonderful  boy,  and  we 
might  all  learn  a  lesson  of  palience  from  him  ;  but  I 
can't  have  the  whole  of  your  life  sacrificed  to  him.  I 
will  provide  for  him  amply  ;  he  shLiU  have  every  com- 
fort which  money  can  command.' 

"  '  But  where  ? '  said  I. 

"  '  In  an  institution  I  know  of,  under  the  charge  of 
a  friend  of  mine.' 

"  '  A  hospital !  '  exclaimed  I ;  and  the  very  thought 
of  my  poor  Nat,  who  had  been  the  centre  of  a  loving 
home-circle,  of  a  merry  school  playground,  ever  since 
he  could  remember  —  the  very  thought  of  his  finding 
himself  alone  among  diseased  people,  and  tended  by 
hired  attendants,  so  overcame  me  that  I  burst  into 
floods  of  tears. 

"  Mr.  Maynard,  who   hated   the  presence  of  tears 


238  "iAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

and  suffering,  as  mirthful  people  always  do,  rose  at 
once  and  said  kindly,  '  Poor  child,  you  are  not  strong 
enough  to  talk  it  over  yet ;  but  as  your  aunt  must  go 
away  so  soon,  I  thought  it  better  to  have  it  all  settled 
at  once.' 

"  *  It  is  settled,  Mr.  Maynard,'  said  I,  in  a  voice  that 
half  frightened  me.  *  I  shall  never  leave  Nat  —  never, 
so  long  as  I  live.' 

" '  Then  you'll  do  him  the  greatest  unkindness  you 
can — that's  all,'  replied  Mr.  Maynard  angrily,  and 
walked  out  of  the  room.  I  locked  myself  up  in  my 
own  room  and  thought  the  whole  matter  over.  How 
I  could  earn  my  own  living  and  Nat's,  I  did  not  know. 
We  should  have  about  four  hundred  dollars  a  year. 
I  had  learned  enough  in  my  childhood  of  jDOverty  to 
know  that  we  need  not  starve  while  we  had  that ;  but 
simply  not  starving  is  a  great  way  off  from  really  liv- 
ing; and  I  felt  convinced  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  keep  up  courage  or  hope  unless  I  could  con- 
trive, in  some  way,  to  earn  money  enough  to  surround 
our  home  with  at  least  a  semblance  of  the  old  atmos- 
phere. We  must  have  books  ;  we  must  have  a  flower 
sometimes  ;  we  must  have  sun  and  air. 

"  At  last  an  inspiration  came  to  me.  Down  stairs, 
in  the  saddened  empty  study,  sat  little  Miss  Penstock, 
the  village  dressmaker,  sewing  on  our  gloomy  black 
dresses.  She  lived  all  alone  in  a  very  small  house 
near  Mr.  Maynard's  mill.  I  remembered  that  I  had 
heard  her  say  how  lonely  she  found  it  living  by  her- 
self since  her  married  sister,  who  used  to  live  with  her, 
had  gone  to  the  West.  Since  then.  Miss  Penstock 
had  sometimes  consented  to  go  for  a  few  days  at  a 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  239 

time  to  sew  in  the  houses  of  her  favorite  employers, 
'just  to  keep  from  forgetting  how  to  speak,'  tlie  poor 
Httle  woman  said.  But  she  disliked  very  much  to  do 
this.  She  was  a  gentlewoman ;  and  though  she  ac- 
cepted with  simple  dignity  the  necessity  of  earning  her 
bread,  it  was  bitterly  disagreeable  to  her  to  sit  as  a 
hired  sewer  in  other  people's  houses.  She  liked  to 
come  to  our  house  better  than  to  any  other.  We  also 
were  poor.  My  Aunt  Abby  was  a  woman  of  great 
simplicity,  and  a  quiet,  stately  humility,  like  Miss 
Penstock's  own  ;  and  they  enjoyed  sitting  side  by  side 
whole  days,  sewing  in  silence.  Miss  Penstock  had 
always  spoken  with  a  certain  sort  of  tender  reverence 
to  Nat,  and  I  remembered  that  he  liked  to  be  in  the 
room  where  she  sewed.  All  these  thoughts  passed 
through  my  mind  in  a  moment.  I  sprang  to  my  feet 
and  exclaimed,  *  That  is  it  —  that  is  it ! '  and  I  ran 
hastily  down  to  the  study.  Miss  Penstock  was  alone 
there.  She  looked  up  in  surprise  at  my  breathless- 
ness  and  my  red  eyes.  I  knelt  down  by  her  side  and 
took  the  work  out  of  her  hands. 

"  '  Dear  Miss  Penstock,'  said  I,  '  would  you  rent 
part  of  your  house  ? ' 

"  She  looked  up  reflectively,  took  off  her  spectacles 
with  her  left  hand,  and  tapped  her  knees  slowly  with 
them,  as  she  always  did  when  puzzling  over  a  scanty 
pattern. 

" '  I  don't  know,  Dora,  but  I  might ;  I've  thought 
of  it ;  it's  awful  lonely  for  me  as  'tis.  But  it's  such  a 
risk  taking  in  strangers ;  is  it  any  friends  of  yours 
you're  thinking  of?' 

"  *  Nat  and  me,'  said  I,  concisely.     Miss  Penstock's 


240  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

spectacles  dropped  from  her  fingers,  and  she  uttered 
an  ejaculation  I  never  heard  from  her  lips  on  any 
other  occasion.     '  Good  Heavens  ! ' 

*' '  Yes/  said  I,  beginning  to  cry,  '  Nat  and  me  !  I've 
got  to  take  care  of  Nat,  and  if  you  would  only  let  us 
live  with  you  I  think  I  could  manage  beautifully.' 
Then  I  told  her  the  whole  story  of  Mr.  Maynard's 
proposal.  While  we  were  talking  Aunt  Abby  came 
in.  The  problem  was  no  new  one  to  her.  Papa  and 
she  had  talked  it  over  many  a  time  in  the  course  of 
the  past  sad  year.  It  seemed  that  he  had  had  to  the 
last  a  strong  hope  that  Mr.  Maynard  would  provide 
for  us  both.  Poor  papa !  as  he  drew  near  the  next 
world,  all  the  conventionalities  and  obligations  of  this 
seemed  so  small  to  him,  he  did  not  shrink  from  the 
thought  of  dependence  upon  others  as  he  would  have 
done  in  health. 

"  '  But  I  always  told  him,'  said  Aunt  Abby,  '  that 
Mr.  Maynard  wasn't  going  to  do  anything  for  Nat  be- 
yond what  money'd  do.  He'd  give  him  a  thousand  a 
year,  or  two,  if  need  be,  but  he'd  never  set  eyes  on 
him  if  he  could  help  it.' 

"'Aunt  Abby,'  exclaimed  I,  'please  don't  say 
another  word  about  Mr.  Maynard's  helping  Nat.  I'd 
die  before  Nat  should  touch  a  cent  of  his  money.' 

"  '  There  is  no  use  talking  that  'va}','  said  Aunt 
Abby,  whose  tenderest  mercies  were  often  cruelly 
worded.  '  Mr.  Maynard  's  a  good,  generous  man,  and 
I'm  sure  he's  been  the  saving  of  us  all.  But  that's  no 
reason  he  should  set  up  to  take  you  away  from  Nat 
now;  and  I  know  well  enough  Nat  can't  live  without 
you ;  but  I  don't  see  how  it's   to  be    managed.     And 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  24 1 

Aunt  Abby  sighed.  Then  I  told  her  my  plans  ;  they 
grew  clearer  and  clearer  to  me  as  I  unfolded  them  ; 
the  two  gentle-faced  spinster  women  looked  at  me 
with  surprise.  Miss  Penstock  wiped  her  eyes  over 
and  over. 

" '  If  I  could  only  be  sure  I  wasn't  going  against 
/our  best  interests  to  let  you  come,'  said  she. 

"  *  Oh,  Miss  Penstock,'  exclaimed  I,  '  don't  think 
so  —  don't  dare  to  say  no  for  that  reason  ;  for  I  tell 
you,  I  shall  go  away  to  some  other  town  with  Nat  if 
you  don't  take  us  ;  there  is  no  other  house  here  that 
would  do  ;  think  how  much  better  it  would  be  for  Nat 
to  stay  among  friends.' 

"  *  It's  lucky  I  am  their  guardian,'  said  Aunt  Abby, 
with  an  unconscious  defiance  in  her  tone.  *  There 
can't  anybody  hinder  their  doing  anything  I  am  will- 
ing: to  have  them  do.  Mv  brother  wanted  to  have 
Mr.  Maynard,  too  ;  but  I  told  him  no  ;  I'd  either  be 
whole  guardian  or  n(one.' 

'"  I  think  good  Aunt  Abby  had  had  a  dim  forebod- 
ing that  Mr.  Maynard's  kindness  might  take  a  shape 
which  it  would  be  hard  to  submit  to.  Great  as  her 
gratitude  was,  her  family  pride  resented  dictation,  and 
resented  also  the  implied  slight  to  poor  Nat.  As  I 
look  back  now,  I  can  see  that,  except  for  this  reaction 
of  feeling,  she  never  would  have  consented  so  easily 
to  my  undertaking  all  I  undertook,  in  going  to  house- 
keeping alone  with  that  helpless  child,  on  four  hundred 
dollars  a  year.  Before  night  it  was  all  settled,  and 
Miss  Penstock  went  home  two  hours  before  her  time, 
*  so  stirred  up,  somehow,'  as  she  said,  '  to  think  of 
those  blessed  children's  coming  to  live  in  my  house, 
16 


242  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

I  couldn't  see  to  thread  a  needle.'  After  tea  Mr. 
Majmard  came  again  :  Aunt  Abby  saw  him  alone. 
When  she  came  up-stairs  she  had  been  crying,  but 
her  lips  were  closed  more  rigidly  than  I  ever  saw 
them.  Aunt  Abby  could  be  as  determined  as  Mr. 
Maynard.  All  she  said  to  me  of  the  interview  was, 
'  I  don't  know  now  as  he'll  really  give  in  that  he 
can't  have  things  as  he  wants  to.  For  all  his  laugh- 
ing and  for  all  his  goodness,  I  don't  believe  he  is  any 
too  comfortable  to  live  with.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
he  never  spoke  to  one  of  us  again.' 

"  But  Mr.  Maynard  was  too  well-bred  a  man  for  any 
such  pettiness  as  that.  His  resentment  showed  itself 
merely  in  a  greater  courtesy  than  ever,  combined  with 
a  careful  absence  of  all  inquiries  as  to  our  plans.  It 
hurt  me  very  much,  for  I  knew  how  it  would  have 
hurt  dear  papa.  But  I  knew,  too,  that  I  was  right  and 
Mr.  Ma3^nard  was  wrong,  and  that  comforted  me. 

"  Four  weeks  from  the  day  papa  was  buried,  the 
pretty  parsonage  was  locked  up,  cold,  dark,  empty. 
Aunt  Abby  had  gone  with  little  Abby  to  her  new 
home,  and  Nat  and  I  were  settled  at  Miss  Penstock's. 
The  night  before  we  moved,  Mr.  Maynard  left  a  note 
at  the  door  for  me.'  It  contained  five  hundred  dollars 
and  these  words  :  — 

"'Miss  Dora  will  not  refuse  to  accept  this  from  one 
who  hoped  to  be  her  father.' 

"  But  I  could  not  take  it.  I  sent  it  back  to  him 
with  a  note  like  this  :  — 

"  *  Dear  Mr.  Maynard  :  —  I  shall  never  forget 
that  you  were  willing  to  be  my  father,  and  I    shall 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  243 

always  be  grateful  to  you ;  but  I  cannot  take  money 
from  one  who  is  displeased  with  me  for  doing  what  I 
think  right.  I  promise  you,  however,  for  papa's  sake 
and  for  Nat's,  that  if  I  ever  need  help  I  will  ask  it  of 
you,  and  not  of  any  one  else.' 

"The  next  time  I  saw  Mr.  Maynard  he  put  both  his 
hands  on  my  shoulders  and  said  :  '  You  are  a  brave 
girl ;  I  wish  I  could  forgive  you  \  but  remember  your 
promise.'  And  that  was  the  last  word  Mr.  Maynard 
spoke  to  me  for  three  years. 

"  Our  new  home  was  so  much  pleasanter  than  we 
supposed  it  could  be,  that  at  first,  in  spite  of  our  grief, 
both  Nat  and  I  were  almost  gay.  It  was  like  a  sort  of 
picnic,  or  playing  at  housekeeping.  The  rooms  were 
sunny  and  cozy.  Rich  people  in  splendid  houses  do 
not  dream  how  pleasant  poor  people's  little  rooms  can 
be,  if  the  sun  shines  in  and  there  are  a  few  pretty 
things.  We  kept  all  the  books  which  could  ever  be 
of  use  to  Nat,  and  a  picture  of  the  Sistine  Madonna 
which  Mr.  Maynard  had  given  us  on  the  last  Christ- 
mas Day,  and  papa's  and  mamma's  portraits.  The 
books,  and  these,  made  our  little  sitting-room  look 
like  home.  We  had  only  two  rooms  on  the  first  floor  ; 
one  of  these  was  a  tiny  one,  but  it  held  our  little 
cooking-stove  and  a  cupboard,  with  our  few  dishes ; 
the  other  we  called  *  sitting-room  ; '  it  had  to  be  dear 
Nat's  bedroom  also,  because  he  could  not  be  carried 
up  and  down  stairs.  But  I  made  a  chintz  curtain, 
which  shutoffhis  bed  from  sight,  and  really  made  the 
room  look  prettier,  for  I  put  it  across  a  corner  and 
had  a  shelf  put  up  above  it,  on  which  Nat's  stuffed 


244  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

owl  sat.  My  room  was  over  Nat's,  and  a  cord  went 
up  from  his  bed  to  a  bell  over  mine,  so  that  he  could 
call  me  at  any  moment  if  he  wanted  anything  in  the 
night.  Then  we  had  one  more  little  chamber,  in 
which  we  kept  the  boxes  of  papa's  sermons,  and  some 
trunks  of  old  clothes,  and  things  which  nobody  wanted 
to  buy  at  the  auction,  and  papa's  big  chair  and  writing- 
table.  We  would  not  sell  those.  I  thought  perhaps 
some  day  we  should  have  a  house  of  our  own  —  I 
could  not  imagine  how  ;  but  if  we  did  we  should  be 
glad  of  that  chair  and  table,  and  so  Aunt  Abby  let  us 
keep  them,  though  they  were  of  handsome  wood,  beau- 
tifully carved,  and  would  have  brought  a  good  deal  of 
mone}'.  For  these  four  rooms  we  paid  Miss  Penstock 
three  dollars  a  month  ;  the  rent  would  have  been  a 
dollar  a  week,  but  she  said  it  was  really  worth  a  dollar 
a  month  to  her  to  have  people  who  would  not  trouble 
her  nor  hurt  the  house  ;  and  as  Aunt  Abby  thought  so 
too,  I  believed  her. 

"  My  plan  was  to  have  Nat  keep  on  at  school,  and 
to  take  in  sewing  myself,  or  to  work  for  Miss  Penstock. 
For  the  first  year  all  went  so  smoothly  that  I  was 
content.  I  used  to  draw  Nat  to  and  from  school  twice 
a  day,  and  that  gave  me  air  and  exercise.  Everybody 
was  very  kind  in  giving  me  sewing,  and  I  earned  four 
and  five  dollars  a  week.  We  did  not  have  to  buy  any 
clothes,  and  so  we  laid  up  a  little  money.  But  the 
next  year  people  did  not  give  me  so  much  sewing  ; 
they  had  given  it  to  me  the  first  3'ear  because  they 
were  sorry  for  us,  but  now  they  had  forgotten.  Very 
often  I  would  sit  idle  a  whole  week,  with  no  work. 
Then  I  used  to  read  and  study,  but  I  could  not  enjoy 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  245 

anything,  because  I  was  so  worried.  I  felt  tliat 
trouble  was  coming.  Early  in  the  fall  dear  Nat  was 
taken  ill  —  the  first  illness  of  his  life.  It  was  a  slow 
fever.  He  was  ill  for  three  months.  I  often  wonder 
how  I  lived  through  those  months.  When  he  recovered 
he  seemed  better  than  ever.  The  doctor  said  he  had 
passed  a  sort  of  crisis  and  would  always  be  stronger 
for  it.  The  doctor  was  very  kind.  Several  nights 
he  sat  up  with  Nat  and  made  me  go  to  bed,  and  he 
would  not  let  me  pay  him  a  cent,  though  he  came 
every  day  for  weeks.  When  I  urged  him  to  let  us  pay 
the  bill  he  grew  half  angry,  and  said,  '  Do  you  think  I 
am  going  to  take  money  from  your  father's  daughter  ?  * 
and  then  I  felt  more  willing  to  take  it  for  papa's  sake. 
But  the  medicines  had  cost  a  great  deal,  and  I  had 
not  earned  anything ;  and  so,  at  the  end  of  the  second 
year,  we  had  been  obliged  to  take  quite  a  sum  out  of 
our  little  capital.  I  did  not  tell  Nat,  and  I  did  not  go 
to  Mr.  Maynard.  I  went  on  from  day  to  day,  in  a 
sort  of  stupor,  wondering  what  would  happen  next.  I 
was  seventeen  years  old,  but  I  knew  of  nothing  I 
could  do  except  to  sew ;  I  did  not  know  enough  to 
teach.  All  this  time  I  never  once  thought  of  the 
mills.  I  used  to  watch  the  men  and  women  sroing:  in 
and  out,  and  envy  them,  thinking  how  sure  they  were 
of  their  wages ;  and  yet  it  never  crossed  my  mind 
that  I  could  do  the  same  thing.  I  am  afraid  it  was 
unconscious  pride  which  prevented  my  thinking  of  it. 
"  But  the  day  came.  It  was  in  the  early  spring.  I 
had  been  to  the  grave-yard  to  set  out  some  fresh 
hepaticas  on  papa's  grave.  His  grave  and  mamma's 
were  in  an   inclosure  surrounded  by   a  high,    thick 


246  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

hedge  of  pines  and  cedars  close  to  the  pubh'c  street 
As  I  knelt  down,  hidden  behind  the  trees,  I  heard 
steps  and  voices.  They  paused  opposite  me.  The 
persons  were  evidently  looking  over  the  fence.  Then 
I  distinguished  the  voice  of  our  kind  doctor. 

" '  Poor  Kent ! '  he  said,  '  how  it  would  distress  him 
to  see  his  children  now  !  That  Nat  barely  pulled 
through  his  fever ;  but  he  seems  to  have  taken  a  new 
turn  since  then  and  is  stronger  than  ever.  But  I  am 
afraid  they  are  very  poor.' 

"  To  my  astonishment,  the  voice  that  replied  was 
Mr.  Maynard's. 

" '  Of  course  they  are,*  said  he  impatiently  ;  '  but 
nobody  will  ever  have  a  chance  to  help  them  till  the 
last  cent's  gone.  That  Dora  would  work  her  fingers  off 
in  the  mills  rather  than  ask  or  receive  help.' 

"' But  good  heavens  !  Maynard,  you'd  never  stand 
by  and  see  Tom  Kent's  daughter  in  the  mills  ? '  ex- 
claimed the  doctor, 

"  I  could  not  hear  the  reply,  for  they  were  walking 
away.  But  the  words  'in  the  mills'  rang  in  my  ears. 
A  new  world  seemed  opening  before  me.  I  had  no 
particle  of  false  pride ;  all  I  wanted  was  to  earn 
money  honestly.  I  could  not  understand  why  I  had 
never  thought  of  this  way.  I  knew  that  many  of  the 
factory  operatives,  who  were  industrious  and  econom- 
ical, supported  large  families  of  children  on  their 
wages.  '  It  would  be  strange  enough  if  I  could  not 
support  Nat  and  myself,'  thought  I,  and  I  almost  ran 
home,  I  was  so  glad.  I  said  nothing  to  Nat ;  I  knew 
Instinctively  that  it  would  grieve  him. 

"  The  next  day  after  I  left  him  at  school  I  went  to 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  247 

the  largest  mill  and  saw  the  overseer.  He  was  a 
coarse,  disagreeable  man ;  but  he  had  known  my  father 
and  he  treated  me  respectfully.  He  said  they  could 
not  give  me  very  good  wages  at  first ;  but  if  I  learned 
readily,  and  was  skillful  in  tending  the  looms,  I  might 
in  time  make  a  very  good  living.  The  sums  that  he 
named  seemed  large,  tried  by  my  humble  standard. 
Even  at  the  beginning  I  should  earn  more  than  I  had 
been  able  to  for  many  months  at  my  needle.  After 
tea  I  told  Nat.  He  lay  very  still  for  some  moments ; 
the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks ;  then  he  reached  up 
both  hands  and  drew  my  face  down  to  his,  and  said, 
*  Dear  sister,  it  would  be  selfish  to  make  it  any  harder 
for  you  than  it  must  be  at  best.  But  oh,  Dot,  Dot ! 
do  you  think  you  can  dream  what  it  is  for  me  to  have 
to  lie  here  and  be  such  a  burden  on  you  ? ' 

" '  Oh,  Nat ! '  I  said,  '  if  you  don't  want  to  break 
my  heart,  don't  speak  so.  I  don't  have  to  earn  any 
more  for  two  than  I  should  have  to  alone  ;  it  does  not 
cost  anything  for  you  ;  and  if  it  did,  you  darling,  don't 
you  know  that  I  could  not  live  without  you  ?  you  are 
all  I  have  got  in  the  world.'  Nat  did  not  reply  ;  but 
all  that  evening  his  face  looked  as  I  never  saw  it 
before.  Nat  was  fifteen  ;  instinct  was  beginning  to 
torture  him  with  a  man's  sense  of  his  helplessness,  and 
it  was  almost  more  than  even  his  childlike  faith  and 
trust  could  bear. 

"The  next  day  I  told  Miss  Penstock.  She  had 
been  as  kind  to  us  as  a  mother  through  this  whole 
year  and  a  half,  and  I  really  think  we  had  taken  the 
place  of  children  in  her  lonely  old  heart.  But  she 
never  could  forget  that  we  were  her  minister's  children ; 


248  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

she  always  called  me  Miss  Dora,  and  does  to  this  day. 
She  did  not  interrupt  me  while  I  told  her  my  plan,  but 
the  color  mounted  higher  and  higher  in  her  face.  As 
soon  as  I  stopped  speaking,  she  exclaimed  :  — 

"  '  Dora  Kent,  are  you  mad  —  a  girl  with  a  face  like 
yours  to  go  into  the  mills  ?  you  don't  know  what  you're 
about.' 

" '  Yes  I  do,  dear  Pennie,'  I  said  (Nat  had  called 
her  Pennie  ever  since  his  sickness,  when  she  had 
taken  tender  care  of  him  night  and  day).  *  I  know 
there  are  many  rude,  bad  men  there,  but  I  do  not 
believe  they  will  trouble  me.  At  any  rate  I  can  but 
try.  I  must  earn  more  money,  Pennie  ;  you  know 
that  as  well  as  I  do.' 

"  She  did  indeed  know  it ;  but  it  was  very  hard  for 
her  to  give  approbation  to  this  scheme.  It  was  not 
until  after  a  long  argument  that  I  induced  her  to 
promise  not  to  write  to  Aunt  Abby  till  I  had  tried  the 
experiment  for  one  month. 

"  The  next  day  I  went  to  the  mill.  Everything 
proved  much  better  than  I  had  feared.  Some  of  the 
women  in  the  room  in  which  I  was  placed  had  be- 
longed to  papa's  Sunday-school,  and  they  were  all 
very  kind  to  me,  and  told  the  others  who  I  was ;  so 
from  the  outset  I  felt  m3^self  among  friends.  In  two 
weeks  I  had  grown  used  to  the  work ;  the  noise  of  the 
looms  did  not  frighten  or  confuse  me,_  and  it  did  not 
tire  me  to  stand  so  many  hours.  I  found  that  I  should 
soon  be  able  to  do  most  of  my  work  mechanically, 
and  think  about  what  I  pleased  in  the  mean  time. 
So  I  hoped  to  be  able  to  study  at  home  and  recite  my 
lessons  to  myself  in  the  mill.     The  only   thing  that 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  249 

troubled   me  was  that  I  could  not  take  Nat  to  and 
from  school,  and  he  had  to  be  left  alone  sometimes. 
But  I  found  a  very  pleasant   and  faithful  Irish  boy, 
who  was  glad  to  earn  a  litde  money  by  drawing  him' 
back   and  forth,  often  staying  with  him  after  School 
till  I  came  home  at  six  o'clock.     This  boy  was  the  son 
of  the  Irish  gardener  on  the  overseer's  place.      The 
overseer  was  an  Englishman  ;  his  name  was  Wilkins. 
He  is  the  only  human  being  I  ever  disliked  so  that  it 
was  hard  to  speak  to  him.     His  brother,  too,  the  a-ent 
who  had  charge  of  all  Mr.   Maynard's  business,  was 
almost  as  disagreeable  as  he.     They  both  looked  like 
bloated  frogs  ;  their  wide,  shapeless  mouths,  flat  noses, 
and  prominent  eyes,  made  me  shudder  when  I  looked 
at  them. 

"Little  Patrick  soon  grew  fond  of  Nat,  as   every- 
body did  who  came  into  close  contact  with  him  ;  and 
he  used  often  to  stay  at  our  house  till  late  at  night 
heanng  Nat's  stones,  and  watching  him  draw  pictures 
on    the    blackboard.     One   of  the    things  I  had    kept 
was    a  great  blackboard  which   papa   had    made   for 
him.     It  was  mounted  on  a  stout  standard,  so  that  it 
could  be  swung  close  in  front  of  his  chair  or  wa-on 
and  he  would  lie  there  and    draw  for   hours   together.' 
Some  of  the  pictures    he    drew  were    so   beautiful    I 
could  not  bear  to  have  them  rubbed  out.     It  seemed 
almost  like  killing  things  that  were  alive.     Whenever 
I  dared  to  spend  a  penny  for  anything  not  absolutely 
needful,  I  always  bought  a  sheet  of  drawing-paper  or 
ft  crayon  ;  for  Nat  would  rather  have  them  than  any. 
^hmg  else  in  the  world  -even  than  a  book  -  unless 
the  book  had  pictures. 


250  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

*'  One  nighty  when  I  went  home,  I  found  him  sit 
ting  up  very  straight  in  his  wagon,  with  his  cheeks 
crimson  with  excitement.  Patrick  was  with  him,  and 
the  table  and  the  whole  floor  were  covered  with  queer, 
long,  jointed  paste-board  sheets^  with  pieces  of  gay- 
colored  calicoes,  pasted  on  them.  Patrick  looked  as 
excited  as  Nat,  and  as  soon  as  I  opened  the  door  he 
exclaimed,  '  Och,  Miss  Dora,  see  how  he's  plazed  with 
um.'  I  was  almost  frightened  at  Nat's  face.  '  Why 
Nat,  dear,'  said  I,  '  what  are  they  ?  I  don't  think  they 
are  very  pretty  \ '  and  I  picked  ujd  one  of  the*  queer 
things  and  looked  at  it.  '  The  colors  are  bright  and 
pretty,  but  I  am  sure  almost  all  the  patterns  are  hid- 
eous.' 

"  '  Of  course  they  are,'  shouted  Nat  hysterically. 
'  That's  just  it.  That's  what  pleases  me  so,'  and  he 
burst  out  crying.  I  was  more  frightened  still.  Tramp- 
ling the  calicoes  under  my  feet,  I  ran  and  knelt  by  his 
chair,  and  put  my  arms  around  him.  '  Oh,  Nat,  Nat, 
what  is  the  matter  ? '  cried  I.  '  Patrick,  what  have 
you  done  to  him  ? '  Poor  Patrick  could  not  speak  ;  he 
was  utterly  bewildered  ;  he  began  hastily  picking  up 
the  prints  and  shuffling  them  out  of  sight. 

"  '  Don't  you  touch  one  ! '  screamed  Nat,  lifting  up 
his  head  again,  with  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks. 
'■  Dot,  Dot,'  he  went  on,  speaking  louder  and  louder, 
*  don't  you  see  ?  those  are  patterns  ;  Patrick  says  Mr. 
Wilkins  buys  them.  I  can  earn  money  too  ;  I  can 
draw  a  million  times  prettier  ones  than  those.' 

"  Like  lightning  the  thing  flashed  through  my  brain. 
Of  course  he  could.  He  drew  better  ones  every  day 
of  his   life,  by  dozens,  on    the   old    blackboard,  with 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  25 1 

crumbling  bits  of  chalk.  Again  and  again  I  had 
racked  my  brains  to  devise  some  method  by  which  he 
might  be  taught,  as  artists  are  taught,  and  learn  to  put 
his  beautiful  conceptions  into  true  shapes  for  the  world 
to  see.  But  I  knew  that  materials  and  instruction 
were  both  alike  out  of  our  reach,  and  I  had  hoped 
earnestly  that  such  longing  had  never  entered  his 
heart.  I  sat  down  and  covered  my  face  with  my 
hands. 

"'You  see,  sister,'  said  Nat  in  a  calmer  tone, 
sobered  himself  by  my  excitement  —  '  you  see,  don't 
you?' 

"  *  Yes,  dear,  I  do  see,'  said  I ;  '  you  will  earn  much 
more  money  than  I  ever  can,  and  take  care  of  me, 
after  all.' 

"  To  our  inexperience,  it  seemed  as  if  a  mine  had 
opened  at  our  feet.  Poor  Patrick  stood  still,  unhappy 
and  bewildered,  twisting  one  of  the  pattern-books  in 
his  hand. 

"  '  An'  is  it  these  same  that  Misther  Nat  '11  be  afther 
tryin*  to  make  ? '  said  he. 

"  *  Oh  no,  Patrick,'  said  Nat,  laughing,  *  only  the 
pictures  from  which  these  are  to  be  made.' 

"Then  we  questioned  Patrick  more  closely.  All  he 
knew  was  that  Mr.  Wilkins'  sister  made  many  of  the 
drawings  ;  Patrick  had  seen  them  lying  in  piles  on 
Mr.  Wilkins'  desk  ;  some  of  them  colored,  some  of 
them  merely  in  ink.  The  pieces  of  paper  were  about 
the  size  of  these  patterns,  some  six  or  eight  inches 
square. 

"*Will  I  ask  Miss  Wilkins  to  come  and  sho>« 
fees  ?  *  said  Patrick. 


252  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

" '  No,  no,'  said  we  both,  hastily  ;  '  you  must  not  tell 
anybody.  Of  course  she  would  not  w^ant  other  people 
to  be  drawing  them  too.' 

^"  Especially  if  she  can't  make  anything  better  than 
these,'  said  Nat,  pityingly.  Already  his  tone  had  so 
changed  that  I  hardly  recognized  it.  In  that  moment 
the  artist-soul  of  my  darling  brother  had  felt  its  first 
breath  of  the  sweetness  of  creative  power. 

"  Patrick  promised  not  to  speak  of  it  to  a  human 
being  ;  as  he  was  going  out  of  the  door  he  turned 
back,  with  a  radiant  face,  and  said  :  '  An  'twas  meself 
that  only  thought  maybe  the  calikers'd  amuse  him  for 
a  minnit  with  their  quare  colors,'  and  he  almost  somer- 
seted off  the  door-steps,  uttering  an  Irish  howl  of  de- 
light. 

"  *  You've  made  our  fortunes !  there'll  always  be  cali- 
coes wanted,  and  I  can  draw  fifty  patterns  a  day,  and 
I'll  give  you  half  of  the  first  pay  I  get  for^  them,' 
called  the  excited  Nat ;  but  Patrick  was  off. 

"We  sat  up  till  midnight.  I  was  scarcely  less  over- 
wrought than  Nat.  He  drew  design  after  design  and 
rejected  them  as  not  quite  perfect. 

" '  You  know,'  he  said,  '  I  must  send  something  so 
very  good  to  begin  with,  that  the}'  can't  help  seeing 
at  first  sight  how  good  it  is.' 

" '  But  not  so  ofood  that  vou  can't  ever  make  an- 
other  equal  to  it,'  suggested  I  out  of  my  practical  but 
inartistic  brain. 

"  *  No  danger  of  that.  Dot,'  said  Nat,  confidently. 
Dot,  there  isn't  anything  in  this  w^orld  I  can't  make  a 
picture  of,  if  I  can  have  paper  enough,  and  pencils 
and  paint.' 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  253 

"  At  last  he  finished  three  designs  which  he  was 
willing  to  send.  They  were  all  for  spring  or  summer 
dresses.  One  was  a  curious  block  pattern,  the  blocks 
of  irregular  shapes,  but  all  fitting  into  each  other,  and 
all  to  be  of  the  gayest  colors.  Here  and  there  came 
a  white  block  with  one  tiny  scarlet  dot  upon  it  j 
*  That's  for  a  black-haired  girl,  Dot,'  said  Nat ;  '  you 
couldn't  wear  it.' 

"  The  second  was  a  group  of  ferns  tied  by  a  little 
wreath  of  pansies ;  nothing  could  be  more  beautiful. 
The  third  was  a  fantastic  mixture  of  pine-tassels  and 
acorns.  I  thought  it  quite  ugly,  but  Nat  insisted  on 
it  that  it  would  be  pretty  for  a  summer  muslin  ;  and  so 
it  was  the  next  year,  \vhen  it  w^as  worn  by  everybody, 
the  little  plumy  pine-tassels  of  a  bright  green  (which 
didn't  wash  at  all),  and  the  acorns  all  tumbling  about 
on  your  lap,  all  sides  up  at  once. 

"  It  was  one  o'clock  before  we  went  to  bed,  and  we 
might  as  well  have  sat  up  all  night,  for  we  did  not 
sleep.  The  next  morning  I  got  up  before  light  and 
walked  into  town,  to  a  shop  where  they  sold  paints. 
I  had  just  time  to  buy  a  box  of  water-colors  and  get 
back  to  the  mill  before  the  bell  stopped  ringing.  All 
the  forenoon  the  little  white  parcel  lay  on  the  floor  at 
my  feet.  As  often  as  I  looked  at  it,  I  seemed  to  see 
Nat's  pictures  dancing  on  the  surface.  I  had  given 
five  dollars  for  the  box ;  I  trembled  to  think  what  a 
sum  that  was  for  us  to  spend  on  an  uncertainty  ;  but 
I  had  small  doubt.  At  noon  I  ran  home  ;  I  ate  little 
dinner  —  Nat  would  not  touch  a  mouthful.  'You 
must  see  the  pansies  and  ferns  done  before  you  go,'  he 
said. 


254  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

*'  And  before  my  hour  was  up  they  were  so  nearly 
done  that  I  danced  around  Nat's  chair  with  delight. 

"  'I  know  Mr.  Wilkins  never  saw  anything  so  pretty 
in  his  life,'  said  Nat,  calmly. 

"  The  thought  of  Mr.  Wilkins  was  a  terrible  damper 
to  me.     Nat  had  not  seen  him  :    I  had. 

" '  Nat,'  said  I,  slowly,  '  Mr.  Wilkins  won't  know 
that  it  is  pretty.  He  is  not  a  man ;  he  is  a  frog,  and 
he  looks  as  if  he  lied.     I  believe  he  will  cheat  us.* 

*'Nat  looked  shocked.  'Why  Dora,  I  never  in  my 
life  heard  you  speak  so.  You  shall  not  take  them  to 
him.     I  will  have  Patrick  take  me  there.' 

"'No,  no,  dear,'  I  exclaimed,  ''I  would  not  have 
you  see  Mr.  Wilkins  for  the  world.  He  is  horrible. 
But  I  am  not  afraid  of  him.' 

"  I  meant  that  I  would  not  for  the  world  have  him 
see  Nat.  He  was  coarse  and  brutal  enough  to  be  in- 
sulting to  a  helpless  cripple,  and  I  knew  it.  But  Nat 
did  not  dream  of  my  reason  for  insisting  so  strongly 
on  going  myself,  and  he  finally  yielded. 

"  I  took  the  pictures  to  the  overseer's  office  at  noon. 
I  knew  that  '  Agent  Wilkins,'  as  he  was  called  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  his  brother,  was  alwavs  there  at 
that  time.  He  looked  up  at  me,  as  I  drew  near  the 
desk,  with  an  expression  which  almost  paralyzed  me 
with  disgust.  But  for  Nat's  sake  I  kept  on.  I 
watched  him  closely  as  he  looked  at  the  pictures.  I 
thought  I  detected  a  start  of  surprise,  but  I  could  not 
be  sure.  Then  he  laid  them  down,  saying  carelessly, 
'I  am  no  judge  of  these  things ;  I  will  consult  some 
one  who  is,  and  let  you  know  to-morrow  noon  if  we 
can  pay  your  brother  anything  for  the  designs.' 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS. 


255 


"*  Of  course  you  know  that  the  market  is  flooded 
mth  this  sort  of  thing,  Miss  Kent,'  he  added,  as  I  was 
walking  away.  I  made  no  reply ;  I  was  already  re- 
volving in  my  mind  a  plan  for  taking  them  to  another 
mill  in  town,  whose  overseer  was  a  brother  of  one  of 
papa's  wardens.  The  next  day  at  noon  I  went  to  the 
office  ;  my  heart  beat  fast,  but  I  tried  to  believe  that  I 
did  not  hope.  Both  the  brothers  were  there.  The 
overseer  spoke  first,  but  I  felt  that  the  agent  watched 
me  sharply. 

" '  So  your  lame  brother  drew  these  designs,  did  he, 
Miss  Dora .? ' 

"  '  My  brother  Nat  drew  them,  sir ;  I  have  but  one 
brother,   said  I,  trying  hard  to  speak  civilly. 

" '  Well '  said  he,  '  they  are  really  very  well  done  — 
quite  remarkable,  considering  that  they  are  the  work  of 
a  child  who  has  had  no  instruction ;  they  would  have  to 
be  rearranged  and  altered  before  we  could  use  them, 
but  we  would  like  to  encourage  him  and  to  help  you 
too,'  he  continued,  patronizingly,  '  and  so  we  shall  buy 
them  just  as  they  are.* 

" '  My  brother  Nat  is  not  a  child,'  replied  I,  '  and 
we  do  not  wished  to  be  helped.  If  the  designs  are 
not  worth  money,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  give  them 
back  to  me .? '  and  I  stepped  nearer  the  desk  and 
stretched  out  my  hand  toward  the  pictures  which  were 
lying  there.  But  Agent  Wilkins  snatched  them  up 
quickly,  and  casting  an  angry  glance  at  his  brother, 
exclaimed:  — 

"  *  Oh,  you  quite  mistake  my  brother,  Miss  Kent  ; 
the  designs  are  worth  money  and  we  are  glad  to  buy 
them  ;  but  they  are  not  worth  so  much  as  they  would 


256  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

be  if  done  by  an  experienced  hand.  We  will  give  you 
ten  dollars  for  the  three,'  and  he  held  out  the  money  to 
me.  Involuntarily  I  exclaimed,  '  I  had  not  dreamed 
that  they  would  be  worth  so  much.'  Nat  could  earn 
then  in  four  hours'  work  as  much  as  I  could  in  a  week  ; 
in  that  one  moment  the  whole  of  life  seemed  thrown 
open  for  us.  All  my  distrust  vanished.  And  when 
the  agent  added,  kindly,  '  Be  sure  and  bring  us  all  the 
designs  which  your  brother  makes.  I  think  we  shall 
want  to  buy  as  many  as  he  will  draw  ;  he  certainly 
has  rare  talent,'  —  I  could  have  fallen  on  the  floor 
at  his  feet  to  thank  him,  so  grateful  did  I  feel  for 
this  new  source  of  income  for  us,  and  still  more  for 
the  inexpressible  pleasure  for  my  poor  Nat. 

'■'  From  that  day  Nat  was  a  changed  bo3\  He 
would  not  go  to  school  in  the  afternoons,  but  spent 
the  hours  from  two  till  five  in  drawing.  I  had  a  cord 
arranged  from  our  room  to  Miss  Penstock's,  so  that 
he  could  call  her  if  at  any  moment  he  needed  help, 
and  she  was  only  too  glad  to  have  him  in  the  house. 
When  I  reached  home  at  six,  T  always  found  him  lying 
back  in  his  chair  with  his  work  spread  out  before  him, 
and  such  a  look  of  content  and  joy  on  his  face-,  that 
more  than  once  it  made  me  cry  instead  of  speaking 
when  I  bent  over  to  kiss  him.  '  Oh,  Dot  —  oh,  Dot !  * 
he  used  to  say  sometimes,  '  it  isn't  all  for  the  sake  of 
the  mone}',  splendid  as  that  is  ;  but  I  do  feel  as  if  I 
should  yet  do  something  much  better  than  making 
designs  for  calicoes.  I  feel  it  growing  in  me.  Oh,  if 
I  could  only  be  taught ;  if  there  were  only  some  one 
here  who  could  tell  me  about  the  things  I  don't  under- 
Btand  ! ' 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  257 

"'But  you  shall  be  taught,  dear,'  I  replied;  *  we 
will  lay  up  all  the  money  you  earn.  I  can  earn 
enough  for  us  to  live  on,  and  then,  with  your  money, 
in  a  few  years  we  can  certainly  contrive  some  way  for 
you  to  study.' 

"  It  seemed  not  too  visionary  a  hope,  for  Nat's  designs 
grew  prettier  and  prettier,  and  the  agent  bought  all  I 
carried  him.  One  week  I  remember  he  paid  me  thirty 
dollars  ;  and  as  he  handed  it  tome,  seeing  how  pleased 
I  looked,  he  said,  — 

Your  brother  is  getting  quite  rich,  is  he  not,  Miss 
Kent } '  Something  sinister  in  his  smile  struck  me  at 
that  moment  as  it  had  not  done  for  a  long  time,  and  I 
resolved  to  go  more  seldom  to  the  office. 

"  We  did  not  lay  up  so  much  as  we  hoped  to  ;  we 
neither  of  us  had  a  trace  of  the  instinct  of  economy 
or  saving.     I  could   not  help   buying  a  geranium  or 
fuchsia  to  set  in    the  windows  ;  Nat  could  not  help 
asking  me  to  buy  a  book  or  a  picture  sometimes,  and 
his  paints  and   pencils  and   brushes  and  paper  cost  a 
good  deal  in  the  course  of  six  months.     Still  we  were 
very   happy  and  very  comfortable,  and  the  days  flew 
by.     Our  little  room  was  so  cozy  and  pretty,  that  Miss 
Penstock's  customers  used  often  to  come  in  to  see  it ; 
and  if  they  happened  to  come  when  Nat  was  there,  they 
almost  always  sent  him  something  afterward  ;  so,  at 
the  end  of  two  years  you  never  would  have  known  'the 
bare  little  room.     We  had  flowers  in  both  windows, 
and  as  each  window  had  sun,  the  flowers  prospered ; 
and  we  had  a  great  many  pretty  pictures  on  the  walls' 
and  Nat's  sketches  pinned    up    in    all   sorts    of  odd 
places.     A   big  beam  ran   across  the    ceiling  in  the 
17 


258  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

middle,  and  that  was  hung  full  of  charcoal  sketches, 
with  here  and  there  a  sheet  just  painted  in  bars  of 
bright  color  —  no  meaning  to  them,  except  to  '  light 
up,'  Nat  said.  I  did  not  understand  him  then,  but  I 
could  see  how  differently  all  the  rest  looked  after  the 
scarlet  and  yellow  were  put  by  their  side.  Some  of 
our  pictures  had  lovely  frames  to  them,  which  Nat 
had  carved  out  of  old  cigar-boxes  that  Patrick  brought 
him.  Sometimes  he  used  to  do  nothing  but  carve  for 
a  week,  and  he  would  say, '  Dot,  I  do  not  believe  draw- 
ing is  the  thing  I  want  to  do,  after  all.  I  want  more ; 
I  hate  to  have  everything  flat.'  Then  he  would  get 
discouraged  and  think  all  he  had  done  was  good  for 
nothing.  '  I  never  can  do  anything  except  to  draw  till 
I  go  somewhere  to  be  taught,'  he  would  say,  and  turn 
back  to  the  old  calico  patterns  with  fresh  zeal. 

"  One  day  a  customer  of  Miss  Penstock's  brought 
Nat  a  book  about  grapes,  which  had  some  pictures  of 
the  different  methods  of  grape-culture  in  different  coun- 
tries. One  of  these  pictures  pleased  him  very  much. 
It  showed  the  grape-vines  looped  on  low  trees,  in 
swinging  festoons.  He  had  the  book  propped  up  open 
at  that  picture  day  after  day,  and  kept  drawing  it  over 
and  over  on  the  blackboard  and  on  paper  till  I  was 
tired  of  the  sight  of  it.  It  did  not  seem  to  me  re- 
markably prett}^  But  Nat  said  one  day,  when  I  told 
him  so,  — 

" '  It  isn't  the  picture  itself,  but  what  I  w.mt  to 
make  from  it.  Don't  you  see  that  the  trees  look  a 
little  like  dancers  whirling  round,  holding  each  other 
by  the  hand  —  one-legged  dancers  .'' ' 

"  I  could  not  see  it.     'Well,'   said   Nat,  'look    at 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  259 

this,  and  see  if  you  can  see  it  any  better  ; '  and  he  drew 
out  of  his  portfolio  a  sheet  with  a  rough  charcoal 
sketch  of  six  or  seven  low,  gnarled,  bare  trees,  with 
their  boughs  inter-locked  in  such  a  fantastic  manner 
that  the  trees  seemed  absolutely  reeling  about  in  a 
crazy  dance.  I  laughed  as  soon  as  I  saw  it.  '  There  ! ' 
said  Nat  triumphantly ;  '  now,  if  I  can  only  get  the 
vines  to  go  just  as  I  want  them  to,  in  and  out,  you 
see  that  will  dress  up  the  dancers.'  He  worked  long 
over  this  design.  The  fancy  seemed  to  have  taken 
possession  of  his  brain.  He  gave  names  to  the  trees, 
but  he  called  them  all  men:  'It's  a  jolly  crew  of  old 
kings,'  he  said  ; '  that's  Sesostris  at  the  head,  and  there's 
Herod ;  that  old  fellow  with  the  gouty  stomach  under 
his  left  arm.'  Nat  was  now  so  full  of  freaks  and 
fun,  that  our  little  room  rang  with  laughter  night  after 
night.  Patrick  used  to  sit  on  the  floor  sometimes, 
with  his  broad  Irish  mouth  stiffened  into  a  perpetual 
grin  at  the  sight  of  the  mirth,  which,  though  he  could 
not  comprehend  it,  he  found  contagious. 

" '  But  what  will  you  do  with  it,  Nat  ? '  said  I.  *  It 
will  never  do  for  a  calico  pattern.' 

" '  I  don't  know,'  said  he  reflectively ;  *  I  might 
make  it  smaller  and  hide  the  faces,  and  not  make  the 
limbs  of  the  trees  look  so  much  like  legs,  and  call  it 
the  "  vine  pattern,"  and  I  guess  old  Wilkins  would 
think  it  was  graceful,  and  I  dare  say  Miss  Wilkins 
vould  wear  it,  if  nobody  else  did.' 

"  '  Oh !  Nat,  Nat,  how  can  you,'  exclaimed  I,  Svhen 
they  have  been  so  good  to  pay  us  so  much  money  ? ' 

"  '  I  know  it,  'said  Nat,  '  it's  too  bad  ;  I'm  ashamed 
now.      But  doesn't  this   look    like    the   two  Wilkins 


26o  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

brothers  ?  You  said  they  looked  like  frogs  ? '  he  ran 
on,  holding  up  a  most  ludicrous  picture  of  two  tall, 
lank  frogs  standing  behind  a  counter,  and  stretching 
out  four  front  legs  like  greedy  hands  across  the  coun- 
ter, with  a  motto  coming  out  of  the  right-hand  frog's 
mouth:  'More  designs,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Kent  — 
something  light  and  graceful  for  summer  wear.' 

"  These  were  the  words  of  a  note  which  Mr,  Wilkins 
had  sent  to  Nat  a  few  weeks  before.  I  laughed  till 
the  tears  ran  down  my  cheeks,  for  really  the  frogs  did 
look  like  the  brothers  Wilkins.  The  picture  haunted 
my  mind  for  weeks  afterward,  and  seemed  somehow 
to  revive  my  old  distrust  of  them. 

"  A  few  days  after  this  Nat  had  finished  a  set  of 
designs  *for  summer  wear,'  as  the  order  said,  and 
among  them  he  had  put  in  the  '  One-Legged  Dancers.' 

" '  It'll  do  no  harm  to  try  it,'  said  he.  '  I  think  it 
would  be  lovely  printed  in  bright-green  on  a  white 
ground,  and  nobody  but  you  and  me  would  ever  see 
the  kings'  legs  in  it.' 

"It  really  was  pretty;  still  I  could  not  help  seeing 
legs  and  heads  and  King  Herod's  stomach  in  it ;  and, 
moreover,  it  was  entirely  too  large  a  figure  for  that 
year's  fashions  in  calico  or  muslin.  However,  I  said 
nothing  and  carried  it  with  the  rest.  When  I  went 
the  next  day,  Mr.  Wilkins  said,  as  he  handed  me  the 
money,  — 

"  '  Oh,  by  the  way,  Miss  Kent,  one  of  the  drawings 
has  been  mislaid.  I  suppose  it  is  of  no  consequence  ; 
we  could  not  use  it ;  it  was  quite  too  large  a  figure, 
and  seemed  less  graceful  than  your  brother's  work 
usually  is  ;  it  was  a  picture  of  grape-vines.' 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  26 1 

"^Oh;  said  I,  'I  told  Nat  I  didn't  believe  that 
would  be  good  for  anything.  No  j  it  is  not  of  the 
least  consequence.' 

"  When  I  repeated  this  to  Nat,  he  did  not  seem  sur- 
prised at  their  refusal  of  the  design  ;  they  had  already 
refused  several  others  in  the  course  of  the  year.  But 
he  seemed  singularly  disturbed  at  the  loss  of  the 
drawing.  At  last  he  urged  me  to  go  and  ask  if  it  had 
not  been  found. 

"'I  may  do  something  with  it  yet,  Dot,'  he  said. 
*  I  know  it  is  a  good  design  for  something,  if  not  for 
calico,  and  I  don't  believe  they  have  lost  it.  It  is 
very  queer.' 

"  But  Mr.  Wilkins  assured  me,  with  great  civility 
and  many  expressions  of  regret,  that  the  design  was 
lost  :  that  they  had  made  careful  search  for  it  every- 
where. 

"  The  thing  would  have  passed  out  of  my  mind  in 
a  short  time  but  for  Nat's  pertinacious  reference  to  it. 
Every  few  days  he  would  say,  '  It  is  very  queer.  Dot, 
about  the  One-Legged  Dancers.  How  could  such  a 
thing  be  lost  t  They  never  lost  a  drawing  before.  I 
believe  Miss  Wilkins  has  got  it,  and  is  going  to  paint  a 
big  picture  from  it  herself ! ' 

"  '  Why,  Nat ! '  I  exclaimed,  *  aren't  you  ashamed } 
that  would  be  stealing.' 

" '  I  don't  care,  Dot,'  he  said  again  and  again,  '  I 
never  shall  believe  that  paper  was  lost' 

"  I  grew  almost  out  of  patience  with  him  ;  I  never 
knew  him  to  be  unjust  to  any  one,  and  it  grieved  me 
that  he  should  be  so  to  people  who  had  been  our  bene 
factors. 


262  SAXE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  About  four  months  later,  one  warm  day  in  April, 
I  walked  over  to  the  town  after  my  day's  work  was 
done,  to  buy  a  gown  for  myself,  and  a  new  box  of 
paints  for  Nat.  I  did  not  go  to  town  more  than  two 
or  three  times  a  year,  and  the  shop-windows  delighted 
me  as  much  as  if  I  had  been  only  eleven  years  old. 
As  I  walked  slowly  up  and  down,  looking  at  every- 
thing, I  suddenly  started  back  at  the  sight  of  a  glossy 
green  and  white  chintz,  which  was  displayed  conspicu- 
ously in  the  central  window  of  one  of  the  largest 
shops.  There  they  were,  just  as  Nat  had  drawn  them 
on  the  missing  paper,  '  The  One-Legged  Dancers  !  * 
Nat  was  right.  It  was  a  pretty  pattern,  a  very  pretty 
pattern  for  a  chintz ;  and  there  was  —  I  laughed  out 
in  spite  of  myself,  as  I  stood  in  the  crowd  on  the  side- 
walk —  yes,  there  was  the  ugly  great  knot  in  one  of 
the  trees  which  had  made  King  Herod's  stomach. 
But  what  did  it  mean  ?  No  chintzes  were  made  in  any 
of  Mr.  Maynard's  mills,  nor,  so  far  as  I  knew,  in  any 
mill  in  that  neighborhood.  I  was  hot  with  indignation. 
Plainly  Nat's  instinct  had  been  a  true  one.  The 
Wilkinses  had  stolen  the  design  and  had  sold  it  to 
some  other  manufacturers,  not  dreaming  that  the  theft 
could  ever  be  discovered  by  two  such  helpless  children 
as  Nat  and  I. 

"  I  went  into  the  shop  and  asked  the  price  of  the 
chintz  in  the  window. 

"  '  Oh,  the  grape-vine  pattern  ?  that  is  a  new  pattern, 
just  out  this  spring;  it  is  one  of  the  most  popular 
patterns  we  ever  had.  A  lovely  thing,  miss,'  said  the 
clerk,  as  he  lifted  down  another  piece  of  it. 

"  *  I  will  take  one  yard,'  said  I  with  a  choking  voicCc 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  263 

I  was  afraid  I  should  cry  in  the  shop.     '  Do  you  know 
where  this  chintz  is  made?'  I  added. 

"  The  clerk  glanced  at  the  price-ticket  and  read  me 
the  name.  It  was  made  by  a  firm  I  had  never  heard 
of,  in  another  State.  No  wonder  the  Wilkinses  thought 
themselves  safe. 

"  When  I  showed  Nat  the  chintz  he  seemed  much 
less  excited  than  I  expected.  He  was  not  so  very 
much  surprised  ;  and.  to  my  great  astonishment,  he 
was  not  at  first  sure  that  it  would  be  best  to  let  the 
Wilkinses  know  that  we  had  discovered  their  cheatinsf. 
But  I  was  firm  ;  I  would  have  no  more  to  do  with 
them.  My  impulse  was  to  go  to  Mr.  Maynard.  Al- 
though during  these  three  years  he  had  never  come  to 
see  us,  I  felt  sure  that,  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 
there  still  was  a  strong  affection  for  us ;  and,  above 
all,  he  was  a  just  man.  He  would  never  keep  in  his 
employ  for  one  day  any  person  capable  of  such  wrong 
as  the  Wilkinses  had  done  us. 

" '  But,'  persisted  Nat,  '  you  do  not  know  that  either 
of  the  Mr.  Wilkinses  had  anything  to  do  with  it. 
They  may  both  have  honestly  supposed  it  was  lost. 
It's  much  more  likely  that  their  sister  stole  it.' 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  this  before.  Poor  Miss 
Wilkins !  Nat's  artistic  soul  had  been  so  outraged  by 
some  of  her  flagrant  calicoes  that  he  believed  her 
capable  of  any  crime. 

"  x\t  last  I  consented  to  go  first  to  the  Wilkinses 
themselves,  and  I  promised  to  speak  very  calmly  and 
gently  in  the  beginning,  and  betray  no  suspicion  of 
them.  I  carried  the  chintz.  When  I  entered  the 
office,  the  overseer  was  talking  in  one  corner  with  a 


264  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES, 

gentleman  whose  back  was  turned  to  me.     The  agent 
sat  by  the  counter. 

"  '  Mr.  Wilkins,'  said  I,  'do  you  remember  the  grape- 
vine pattern  my  brother  drew  last  winter  —  the  one 
which  you  refused  ? ' 

"The  instant  I  spoke,  I  saw  that  he  did  remember. 
I  saw  that  he  was  guilty,  and  I  saw  it  all  with  such 
certainty  that  it  enabled  me  to  be  very  calm. 

"  'Let  me  see,'  said  he,  trying  to  pretend  to  be  rack- 
ing his  memory  ;  '  the  grape-vine  pattern  ?  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  do  recall  something  about  a  design  with 
that  name.     Did  you  say  we  refused  it  ? ' 

"'Yes,  you  refused  it,  but  you  did  not  return  the 
drawing.     You  said  it  had  been  lost,'  I  replied. 

" '  Ah,  yes,  yes  —  now  I  recollect,'  he  said,  recov- 
ering himself  somewhat ;  '  we  made  great  search  for 
the  drawing  ;  I  remember  all  about  it  now ;  *  and  he 
paused  as  if  waiting  civilly  to  know  what  more  there 
could  possibly  be  to  be  said  on  that  point.  But  I 
watched  him  closely  and  saw  that  he  was  agitated.  I 
looked  him  steadily  in  the  eye  and  did  not  speak, 
while  I  slowly  opened  my  little  bundle  and  unrolled 
the  piece  of  chintz. 

" '  Can  you  possibly  explain  this  myster}^,  then,  sir, 
that  here  is  my  brother's  design  printed  on  this  chintz  ? ' 
said  I,  in  a  clear,  distinct  tone,  holding  out  the  yard 
of  chintz  at  its  full  length.  As  I  said  the  words  '  my 
brother's  design,'  the  gentleman  who  had  been  talking 
with  the  overseer  turned  quickly  round,  and  I  saw  that 
it  was  ]\Ir,  Maynard's  youngest  son  Robert,  who  a 
year  before  had  come  home  from  Germany,  and  had 
recently  been  taken  into  the   firm    as   partner.     He 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  265 

stepped  a  little  nearer  me,  and  was  evidently  listening 
to  my  words. 

"  '  Come  into  this  room,  Mr.  Maynard,  if  you  please, 
and  we  will  finish  discussing  the  matter  we  were 
speaking  of,'  said  Overseer  Wilkins,  turning  pale,  and 
speaking  very  hurriedly,  and  trying  to  draw  Mr.  May- 
nard into  the  inner  office-room. 

"'And  —  if  you  will  call  some  other  time.  Miss 
Kent,'  said  iVgent  Wilkins,  turning  away  from  me  and 
walking  toward  Mr.  Maynard,  in  his  anxiety  to  pre- 
vent my  being  seen  or  heard,  '  I  will  try  to  attend  to 
this  matter;  but  just  now  I  have  not  another  moment 
to  spare,'  and  he  began  at  once  to  talk  in  a  loud  and 
voluble  manner. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  I  had  strength  and  courage  to 
do  what  I  did  then  ;  I  do  not  know  where  the  voice 
came  from  with  which  I  spoke  then;  Robert  has 
always  said  that  I  looked  like  a  young  lioness,  and 
that  my  voice  sounded  like  the  voice  of  one  crying 
'  fire.'  I  stepped  swiftly  up  to  him,  and  before  the 
astounded  Wilkins  could  speak  a  word,  I  had  held  up 
the  chintz  and  exclaimed,  '  But  Mr.  Maynard  will  have 
time  to  spare,  and  I  thank  God  he  is  here.  Mr.  May- 
nard, this  design  is  one  of  my  brother's  drawing  :  he 
has  made  most  of  the  calico  designs  printed  in  your 
father's  mills  for  a  year  and  a  half:  I  brought  this  one 
to  the  agent  \  he  said  it  was  not  good  for  anything, 
but  he  stole  the  paper  and  sold  it,  and  here  it  is ! '  and 
then  suddenly  my  strength  all  disappeared,  great  ter- 
ror seized  me,  and  I  burst  into  tears.  Both  the  agent 
and  the  overseer  began  to  speak  at  once. 

"'Be  silent,'  thundered  Robert,  in  the  most  com- 


256  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

manding  tone  I  ever  heard  out  of  human  lips.  *Be 
silent,  both  of  you  ! '  Then  he  took  the  chintz  away 
from  me,  and  taking  both  my  hands  in  his,  led  me  to 
a  chair,  saying,  in  a  voice  as  sweet  and  gentle  as  the 
other  was  terrible,  '  Pray  be  calm,  my  dear  young  lady 
—  this  matter  shall  be  looked  into.  Sit  down  and  do 
not  try  to  speak  for  a  few  minutes.' 

"  Then  he  walked  over  to  the  brothers ;  even 
through  my  tears  I  could  see  how  terrified  they  looked  ; 
they  seemed  struck  dumb  with  fright ;  he  spoke  to 
them  now  in  the  most  courteous  manner,  but  the  cour- 
tesy was  almost  worse  than  the  anger  had  been  before. 

"  '  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  for  the  use  of  the  office 
for  a  short  time,  gentlemen.  This  is  an  aff"air  I  prefer 
to  investigate  immediately,  and  I  would  like  to  see 
this  young  lady  alone.'  They  both  began  to  speak 
again,  but  he  interrupted  them. 

"  '  I  will  send  for  you  presently  ;  not  a  word  more 
now,  if  you  please  ;'  and  in  spite  of  themselves  they 
were  obliged  to  walk  out  of  the  room.  As  they  turned 
to  shut  the  door  their  faces  frightened  me. 

"  '  Oh  ! '  I  exclaimed  ;  '  oh,  Mr.  Maynard,  they  wil) 
kill  Nat.  I  must  go  home  at  once,'  and  I  rose  trem- 
bling in  every  nerve.  He  made  me  sit  down  again, 
and  brought  me  a  glass  of  wine,  and  said,  *  Do  not  be 
afraid,  my  dear  child,  they  will  not  dare  harm  your 
brother.     Drink  this,  and  tell  me  your  whole  story.' 

"  Then  I  told  him  all.  He  interrupted  me  only 
once,  to  ask  me  about  the  prices  paid  us  for  two  or 
three  especial  patterns  which  he  happened  to  recollect. 
When  I  stopped,  he  jumped  up  from  his  chair  and 
walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  me,  ejaculating,  '  By 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  26 J 

Jove  !  this  is  infernal  —  I  never  heard  of  such  a  con- 
temptible bit  of  rascality  in  my  life.  I  have  told  my 
father  ever  since  I  came  home  that  these  men  had 
bad  faces,  and  I  have  looked  carefully  for  traces  of 
cheating  in  their  accounts.  But  they  were  too  cow- 
ardly to  try  it  on  a  large  scale.' 

"  He  then  told  me  that  the  originality  and  beauty 
of  the  designs  which  the  Wilkinses  had  furnished  the 
firm  of  late  had  attracted  general  attention  ;  that  they 
had  said  the  best  ones  were  the  work  of  a  sister 
in  England,  the  others  of  the  sister  living  with  them. 
When  he  told  me  the  prices  which  had  been  paid  for 
them,  I  could  not  help  groaning  aloud  and  burying 
my  face  in  my  hands.  '  Oh,  my  poor  Nat ! '  I  ex- 
claimed, 'you  might  have  had  everything  you  wanted 
for  that.' 

" '  But  he  shall  have  it  still.  Miss  Kent,'  said  Rob- 
ert —  'I  shall  give  you  a  check  for  the  whole  amount 
before  you  leave  this  room,  and  I  do  assure  you  that 
your  brother  has  a  fortune  in  his  talent  for  drawing. 
Probably  this  work  is  only  the  beginning  of  what  he 
will  do.' 

"  As  Robert  opened  the  office-door  for  me  to  pass 
out,  I  saw  the  two  Mr.  Wilkinses  standing  together  at 
the  gate  through  which  I  must  go.  Robert  answered 
my  look  of  alarm  by  saying,  *  I  shall  walk  home  with 
you,  Miss  Kent.     They  shall  not  annoy  you.' 

"  As  we  came  near,  they  both  lifted  their  hats  with 
obsequious,  angry  bows.  Robert  did  not  look  at 
them,  but  said  in  a  low  tone,  as  we  passed,  '  Go  to 
'he  office  and  wait  there  till  I  return.' 

"AVhen  he  bade  me  good-by  at  my  door,  he  said 


268  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

'  I  shall  go  now  to  find  my  father,  and  if  he  is  at  home 
the  brothers  Wilkins  will  be  dismissed  from  our  employ 
in  less  than  one  hour.'  I  looked  after  him  as  long  as 
I  could  see  him.  Then  I  went  into  our  little  sitting:- 
room,  sank  into  a  chair,  and  sat  motionless,  turning 
the  check  over  and  over  in  my  hand,  and  wondering  if 
I  really  were  awake  and  alive,  or  if  all  were  a  dream 
In  a  few  moments  Nat  came  home.  As  Patrick  lifted 
the  wagon  up  over  the  door-steps,  and  Nat  caught 
sight  of  my  face,  he  called  out,  '  Oh,  sister,  what  is 
the  matter  —  are  you  ill  ? '  I  ran  to  him  and  put  the 
check  into  his  hands,  but  it  was  some  minutes  before 
I  could  speak.  The  wonderful  fortune  did  not  over- 
whelm Nat  as  it  had  me.  He  was  much  stronger  than 
I.  Every  stroke  of  his  pencil  during  the  last  year  had 
developed  and  perfected  his  soul.  He  was  fast  coming 
to  have  that  consciousness  of  power  which  belc^ngs  to 
the  true  artist,  and  makes  a  life  self-centred. 

" '  I  have  felt  that  all  this  would  come,  dear,'  he 
said,  '  and  more  than  this  too,'  he  added  dreamily,  *  we 
shall  go  on ;  this  is  only  the  outer  gate  of  our  lives.' 

"  He  prophesied  more  truly  than  he  knew  when  he 
«aid  that  —  my  dear  blessed  artist-souled  martyr ! 

"I  need  not  dwell  on  the  details  of  the  next  half-year. 
A  few  words  can  tell  them ;  and  then,  again,  worlds 
Cf  words  could  not  tell  them. 

"  Three  months  from  the  day  I  carried  the  piece  of 
chintz  into  the  overseer's  office,  Robert  and  I  were 
married  in  the  beautiful  chapel  where  papa  used  to 
preach.  All  the  mills  were  shut,  and  the  little  chapel 
was  crowded  with  the  workmen  and  workwomen. 
When  we  came  out  they  n^ere  all  drawn   up  in  lines 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  269 

on  the  green,  and  Robert  and  Mr.  Maynard  both 
made  them  little  speeches.  Nat  and  Miss  Penstock 
and  Patrick  were  in  Mr.  Maynard's  carriage,  and 
Robert  and  I  stood  on  the  ground  by  the  carriage- 
door.  After  the  people  had  gone,  Mr.  Maynard  came 
up  to  me  and  put  both  his  hands  on  my  shoulders,  just 
as  he  had  done  three  years  before,  and  said,  *  You 
were  a  brave  girl,  but  you  had  to  take  me  for  your 
father,  after  all.' 

"  Nat's  wedding-present  to  me  was  a  wood-carving 
of  the  '  One-Legged  Dancers'  —  the  one  which  stands 
on  the  little  gilt  table.  I  shall  never  be  separated 
from  it. 

"  When  I  first  found  out  how  very  rich  Robert  was, 
I  was  afraid ;  it  seemed  to  me  almost  wrong  to  have 
so  much  money.  But  I  hope  we  shall  not  grow  selfish. 
And  I  cannot  but  be  grateful  for  it,  when  I  see  what 
it  has  done  for  my  darling  brother.  He  is  living  now 
in  a  beautiful  apartment  in  New  York.  Patrick  is 
with  him,  his  devoted  servant,  and  Miss  Penstock 
has  gone  to  keep  house  for  them.  Nat  is  studying 
and  working  hard  ;  the  best  artists  in  the  city  are  his 
friends,  and  his  pictures  are  already  known  and  sought. 
When  Robert  first  proposed  this  arrangement,  Nat 
said,  '  Oh  no,  no  !  I  cannot  accept  such  a  weight  of 
obligation  from    any  man,  not  even  from  a  brother.' 

"  Robert  rose  and  knelt  down  by  Nat's  chair,  and 
even  then  he  was  so  far  above  him  he  had  to  bend 
over. 

" '  Nat,'  said  he,  in  a  low  tone,  *  I  never  knelt  to  any 
buman  being  before ;  I  didn't  kneel  to  Dora  when  I 
asked  her  to  give  herself  to  me,  for  I  was  sure  I  could 


2/0  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

SO  give  myself  to  her  as  to  make  her  happy  ;  but  it  is 
to  you,  after  all,  that  I  owe  it  that  she  is  mine  ;  I 
never  can  forget  it  for  an  hour,  and  I  never  can  repay 
you  —  no,  not  m  my  whole  life-time,  nor  with  all  my 
fortune.' 

"Then  he  told  him  that  the  sum  which  it  would 
need  to  support  him  and  Miss  Penstock  and  Patrick 
in  this  way  was  so  small,  in  comparison  with  our  whole 
income,  that  it  was  not  worth  mentioning.  ^  And  at 
any  rate,'  he  said,  'it  is  useless  for  you  to  remonstrate, 
Nat,  for  I  have  already  made  fifty  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  stock  so  entirely  yours,  that  you  cannot 
escape  from  it.  The  papers  are  all  in  my  father's 
hands,  and  the  income  will  be  paid  to  you,  or  left 
subject  to  your  order, 'quarterly.  If  you  do  not  spend 
it,  nobody  else  will;'  and  then  Robert  bent  down 
lower,  and  lifting  Nat's  thin  hands  tenderly  in  his, 
pressed  them  both  against  his  check,  in  the  way  I 
often  did.  It  was  one  of  the  few  caresses  Nat  loved. 
I  stood  the  other  side  of  the  chair,  and  I  stooped 
down  and  kissed  him,  and  said  :  — 

" '  And,  Nat,  I  cannot  be  quite  happy  in  any  other 
way.' 

"  So  Nat  yielded. 

"It  was  hard  to  come  away  and  leave  him.  For 
some  time  I  clung  to  the  hope  that  he  might  come 
with  us ;  but  the  physicians  all  said  it  would  be 
madness  for  him  to  run  the  risk  of  a  sea-voyage. 
However,  I  know  that  for  him,  the  next  best  thing  to 
leeing  Europe  himself  is  to  see  it  through  my  eyes. 
I  write  to  him  every  week,  and  I  shall  carry  home 
to  him  such  art-treasures  as  he  has  never  dreamed 
of  possessing. 


THE   ONE-LEGGED  DANCERS.  2/1 

"  Next  year  we  shall  go  home,  and  then  he  will 
come  back  to  Maynard's  Mills  and  live  with  us. 
Robert  is  having  a  large  studio  built  for  him  on  the 
north  side  of  the  house,  with  a  bed-room  and  little 
sitting-room  opening  out  of  it.  Miss  Penstock,  too, 
will  always  live  with  us  ;  we  shall  call  her  '  house- 
keeper,' to  keep  her  contented,  and  Patrick  is  to 
stay  as  Nat's  attendant.  Poor  fellow,  he  is  not  quite 
full-witted,  we  think ;  but  he  loves  Nat  so  devotedly 
that  he  makes  a  far  better  servant  than  a  cleverer 
boy  would  with  a  shade  less  affection. 

"And  now  you  have  heard  the  story  of  my  life, 
dear  friend,"  said  Dora,  as  she  rose  from  the  seat 
and  lighted  the  rose-colored  tapers  in  two  low  swinging 
Etruscan  candlesticks  just  above  our  heads  —  "  all 
that  I  can  tell  you,"  she  added  slowly.  "You  will 
understand  that  I  cannot  speak  about  the  happiest 
part  of  it.  But  you  have  seen  Robert.  The  only  thing 
that  troubles  me  is  that  I  have  no  sorrow.  It  seems 
dangerous.  Dear  Nat,  although  he  has  all  he  ever 
hoped  for,  need  not  fear  being  too  happy,  because  he 
has  the  ever-present  pain,  to  make  him  earnest  and 
keep  him  ready  for  more  pain.  I  said  so  to  him  the 
day  before  I  came  away,  and  he  gave  me  those 
verses  I  told  you  of,  called  '  The  Angel  of  Pain.' " 

Then  she  repeated  them  to  me  :  — 

THE  ANGEL  OF  PAIN. 

Angel  of  Pain,  I  think  thy  face 
Will  be,  in  all  the  heavenly  place, 
The  sweetest  face  that  I  shall  see, 
The  swiftest  face  to  smile  on  me. 
All  other  angeli  faint  and  tire  ; 
Joy  wearies,  and  forsakes  desire  ; 


2/2  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Hope  falters,  face  to  face  with  Fate, 
And  dies  because  it  cannot  waii ; 
And  Love  cuts  short  each  loving  day, 
Because  fond  hearts  cannot  obey 
That  subtlest  law  which  measures  bliss 
By  what  it  is  content  to  miss. 
But  thou,  O  loving,  faithful  I^ain  — 
Hated,  reproached,  rejected,  slain  — 
Dost  only  closer  cling  and  bless 
In  sweeter,  stronger  steadfastness. 
Dear,  patient  angel,  to  thine  own 
Thou  comest,  and  art  never  known 
Till  late,  in  some  lone  twilight  place 
The  light  of  thy  transfigured  face 
Sudden  shines  out,  and,  speechless,  they 
Know  they  have  walked  with  Christ  all  day. 

When  she  had  done  we  sat  for  some  time  silent 
Then  I  rose,  and  kissing  her,  still  silent,  went  out 
into  the  unlighted  room  where  the  gilt  table  stood.  A 
beam  of  moonlight  fell,  broad  and  white,  across  its 
top,  and  flickered  on  the  vine-leaves  and  the  ferns. 
In  the  dim  weird  light  their  shapes  were  more  fan- 
tastic than  ever. 

The  door  into  the  outer  hall  stood  open.  As  I 
went  toward  it,  I  saw  old  Anita  toiling  slowly  up  the 
stairs,  with  a  flat  basket  on  her  head.  Her  wrinkled 
face  was  all  aglow  with  delight.  As  soon  as  she 
reached  the  threshold  she  set  the  basket  down,  and 
exclaiming,  "  Oh  look,  look,  Signora !  "  lifted  off  the 
cover.  It  was  full  of  fresh  and  beautiful  anemones  of 
all  colors.  She  moved  a  few  on  top  and  showed  me 
that  those  beneath  were  chiefly  purple  ones. 

"  Iddio  mio !  will  not  the  dearest  of  Sisfnoras  be 
pleased  now  !  "  she  said.     "  The  saints  wish  that  she 


THE   ONE-LEGGED   DANCERS.  273 

shall  have  all  she  desires ;  did  not  my  Biagio's  brother 
come  in  from  Albano  this  morning  ?  and  as  I  was  iu 
the  Piazza  Navona,  buying  oranges,  I  heard  him 
calling  from  a  long  way  off,  'Ho  Anita,  my  Anita, 
here  are  anemones  for  your  beautiful  Signora  with  the 
bright  hair.' 

"  They  grow  around  an  old  tomb  a  mile  away  from 
his  vineyard,  and  he  set  out  from  his  home  long  before 
light  to  get  them  for  me  ;  for  he  once  saw  the  Signora 
and  he  had  heard  me  say  that  she  never  could  have 
enough  of  anemones.  Iddio  mio !  but  my  heart  is 
glad  of  them.  Ah,  the  dearest  of  Signoras !  "  and, 
with  a  tender  touch,  Anita  laid  the  cool  vine-leaves 
lightly  back  upon  the  anemones  and  hurried  on  in 
search  of  Dora. 

18 


HOW    ONE    WOMAN    KEPT    HER 
HUSBAND. 


place. 


HY  my  sister  married  John  Gray,  I  never 
could  understand.  I  was  t\Yent>'-two  and 
she  was   eighteen   when    the  marriage  took 

They  had  known  each  other  just   one   year. 


He  had  been  passionately  in  love  with  her  from  the 
first  day  of  their  meeting.  She  had  come  more  slowly 
to  loving  him  :  but  love  him  she  did,  with  a  love  of 
such  depth  and  fervor  as  are  rarely  seen.  He  was 
her  equal  in  nothing  except  position  and  wealth.  He 
had  a  singular  mixture  of  faults  of  opposite  temper- 
aments. He  had  the  reticent,  dreamy,  procrastinat- 
ing inertia  of  the  bilious  melancholic  man,  side  by 
side  with  the  impressionable  sensuousness,  the  sen- 
sitiveness and  sentimentalism  of  the  most  sanguine- 
nervous  type.  There  is  great  charm  in  such  a  com- 
bination, especially  to  persons  of  a  keen,  alert  nature. 
My  sister  was  earnest,  wise,  resolute.  John  Gray 
was  nonchalant,  shrewd,  vacillating.  My  sister  was 
exact,  methodical,  ready.  John  Gray  was  careless, 
spasmodic,  dilatory.  My  sister  had  affection.  He 
had  tenderness.  She  was  religious  of  soul ;  he  had 
a   sort   of  transcendental    perceptivity,    so  to   speak, 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    2/5 

which  kept  him  more  alive  to  the  comforts  of  re- 
ligion than  to  its  obligations.  My  sister  would  have 
gone  to  the  stake  rather  than  tell  a  lie.  He  would 
tell  a  lie  unhesitatingly,  rather  than  give  anybody 
pain.  My  sister  lived  earnestly,  fully,  actively,  in 
each  moment  of  the  present.  It  never  seemed  quite 
clear  whether  he  were  thinking  of  to-day,  yesterday, 
or  to-morrow.  She  was  upright  because  she  could 
not  help  it.  He  was  upright, —  when  he  was  up- 
right,—  because  of  custom,  taste,  and  the  fitness  of 
things.  What  fatal  discrepancies  !  what  hopeless  lack 
of  real  moral  strength,  enduring  purpose,  or  princi- 
ple in  such  a  nature  as  John  Gray's !  When  I  said 
these  things  to  my  sister,  she  answered  always,  with  a 
quiet  smile,  '^  I  love  him."  She  neither  admitted  nor 
denied  my  accusations.  The  strongest  expression 
she  ever  used,  the  one  which  came  nearest  to  being  an 
indignant  repelling  of  what  I  had  said,  was  one  day, 
when  I  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Ellen,  I  would  die  before  I'd  risk  my  happiness 
in  the  keeping  of  such  a  man." 

"  My  tj^ppiness  is  already  in  his  keeping,"  said  she 
in  a  steady  voice,  "  and  I  believe  his  is  in  mine.  He 
is  to  be  my  husband  and  not  yours,  dear  j  you  do  not 
know  him  as  I  do.     You  do  not  understand  him." 

But  it  is  not  to  give  an  analysis  of  her  character  or 
of  his,  nor  to  give  a  narrative  of  their  family  history, 
that  I  write  this  tale.  It  is  only  one  episode  of  their 
iife  that  I  shall  try  to  reproduce  here,  and  I  do  it 
because  I  believe  that  its  lesson  is  of  priceless  worth 
to  women. 

Ellen  had  been  married  fourteen  years,  and  was  the 


Zy^  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

mother  of  five  children,  when  my  story  begins.  The 
years  had  gone  in  the  main  peacefully  and  pleasantly. 
The  children,  three  girls  and  two  boys,  were  fair  and 
strong.  Their  life  had  been  a  veiy  quiet  one,  for  our 
village    was   far    removed    from    excitements    of  all 

kinds.     It  was  one  of  the  suburban  villages  of , 

and  most  of  the  families  living  there  were  the  families 
of  merchants  or  lawyers  doing  business  in  the  town, 
going  in  early  in  the  morning,  and  returning  late  at 
night.  There  is  usually  in  such  communities  a  strange 
lack  of  social  intercourse  ;  whether  it  be  that  the  daily 
departure  and  return  of  the  head  of  the  family  keeps 
up  a  perpetual  succession  of  small  crises  of  interest 
to  the  exclusion  of  others,  or  that  the  night  finds  all 
the  fathers  and  brothers  too  tired  to  enjoy  anything 
but  slippers  and  cigars,  I  know  not ;  but  certain  it  is 
that  all  such  suburban  villages  are  unspeakably  dull 
and  lifeless.  There  is  barely  feeling  enough  of  good 
neighborhood  to  keep  up  the  ordinary  interchange  of 
the  commonest  civilities. 

Except  for  long  visits  to  the  city  in  the  winter,  and 
long  journeys  in  the  summer,  I  myself  should  have 
found  life  insupportably  tedious.  But  Ellen  was  abso- 
lutely content.  Her  days  were  unvar}dngly  alike,  a 
simple  routine  of  motherly  duties  and  housekeeping 
cares.  Her  evenings  were  equally  unvaried,  being 
usually  spent  in  sewing  or  reading,  while  her  husband, 
in  seven  evenings  out  often,  dozed,  either  on  the  sofa, 
or  on  one  of  the  children's  little  beds  in  the  nursery. 
His  exquisite  tenderness  to  the  children,  and  his  quiet 
delight  in  simply  being  where  they  were,  were  the 
brightest  points  in  John  Gray's  character  and  life. 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER    HUSBAND.    2/7 

Such  monotony  was  not  good  for  either  of  them. 
He  grew  more  and  more  dreamy  and  inert.  She  in- 
sensibly but  continually  narrowed  and  hardened,  and, 
without  dreaming  of  such  a  thing,  really  came  to  be 
less  and  less  a  part  of  her  husband's  inner  life. 
Faithful,  busy,  absorbed  herself  in  the  cares  of  each 
day,  she  never  observed  that  he  was  living  more  and 
more  in  his  children  and  his  reveries,  and  withdraw- 
ing more  and  more  from  her.  She  did  not  need 
constant  play  and  interchange  of  sentiment  as  he  did. 
Affectionate,  loyal,  devoted  as  she  was,  there  was  a 
side  of  husband's  nature  which  she  did  not  see  nor 
satisfy,  perhaps,  never  could.  But  neither  of  them 
knew  it. 

At  this  time  Mr.  Gray  was  offered  a  position  of  im- 
portance in  the  city,  and  it  became  necessary  for  them 
to  move  there  to  live.  How  I  rejoiced  in  the  change. 
How  bitterly  I  regretted  it  before  two  years  had  passed. 

Their  city  home  was  a  beautiful  one,  and  their  con- 
nections and  associations  were  such  as  to  surround 
them  at  once  with  the  most  desirable  companionships. 
At  first  it  was  hard  for  Ellen  to  readjust  her  system  of 
living  and  to  accustom  herself  to  the  demands  of  even  a 
moderately  social  life.  But  she  was  by  nature  very  fond 
of  all  such  pleasures,  and  her  house  soon  became  one  of 
the  pleasantest  centres,  in  a  quiet  way,  of  the  compara- 
tively quiet  city.  John  Gray  expanded  and  brightened 
in  the  new  atmosphere  ;  he  had  always  been  a  man  of 
influence  among  men.  All  his  friends, — even  his 
acquaintances,  —  loved  him,  and  asked  his  advice.  It 
was  a  strange  thing  that  a  man  so  inert  and  procras- 
tinating in  his  own  aiifliirs,  should  be  so  shrewd  and 


zyS  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

practical  and  influential  in  the  affairs  of  others,  or  in 
public  affairs.  This,  however,  was  no  stranger  than 
many  other  puzzling  incongruities  in  John  Gray's 
character.  Since  his  college  days  he  had  never  min- 
gled at  all  in  general  society  until  this  winter,  after 
their  removal  to  town ;  and  it  was  with  delight  that  1 
watched  his  enjoyment  of  people,  and  their  evident 
liking  and  admiration  for  him.  His  manners  were 
singularly  simple  and  direct ;  his  face,  which  was  not 
wholly  pleasing  in  repose,  was  superbly  handsome 
when  animated  in  conversation  ;  its  inscrutable  reti- 
cence which  baffled  the  keenest  (?bservation  when  he 
was  silent,  all  disappeared  and  melted  in  the  glow  of 
cordial  good-fellowship  which  lighted  every  feature 
when  he  talked.  I  grew  very  proud  of  my  brother  as 
I  watched  him  in  his  new  sphere  and  surroundings  \ 
and  I  also  enjoyed  most  keenly  seeing  Ellen  in  a 
wider  and  more  appreciative  circle.  I  spent  a  large 
part  of  the  first  winter  in  their  house,  and  shared  all 
their  social  pleasures,  and  looked  forvvard  to  ever 
increasing  delight,  as  my  nieces  should  grow  old 
enough  to  enter  into  society. 

Early  in  the  spring  I  went  to  the  West  and  passed 
the  entire  summer  with  relatives  \  I  heard  from  my 
sister  every  week  ;  her  letters  were  always  cheerful 
and  natural,  and  I  returned  to  her  in  the  autumn,  full 
of  anticipations  of  another  gay  and  pleasant  winter. 

They  met  me  in  New  York,  and  I  remembered 
afterwards,  though  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment  I 
gave  it  no  second  thought,  that  when  John  Gray's 
eyes  first  met  mine,  there  was  in  them  a  singular  and 
mdefinable  expression,  which  roused  in  me  an  instant 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    2/9 

sense  of  distrust  and  antagonism.  He  had  never 
thoroughly  liked  me.  He  had  always  had  an  under- 
current of  fear  of  me.  He  knew  I  thought  him  weak : 
he  felt  that  I  had  never  put  full  confidence  in  him. 
That  I  really  and  truly  loved  him  was  small  offset  for 
this.     Would  it  not  be  so  to  all  of  us  ? 

This  part  of  my  story  is  best  told  in  few  words.  I 
had  not  been  at  home  one  week  before  I  found  that  ru- 
mor had  been  for  some  months  coupling  John  Gray's 
name  with  the  name  of  Mrs.  Emma  Long,  a  widow  who 
had  but  just  returned  to ,  after  twelve  years  of  mar- 
ried life  in  Cuba.  John  had  known  her  in  her  girlhood, 
but  there  had  never  been  any  intimacy  or  even  friend- 
ship between  them.  My  sister,  however,  had  known 
her  well,  had  corresponded  with  her  during  all  her 
life  at  the  South,  and  had  invited  her  to   her  house 

immediately  upon  her  return  to  .     Emma  Long 

was  a  singularly  fascinating  woman.  Plain  and  sharp 
and  self- asserting  at  twenty- two,  she  had  become  at 
thirty-five  magnetic  and  winning,  full  of  tact,  and 
almost  beautiful.  We  see  such  surprising  develop- 
ments continually :  it  seems  as  if  nature  did  her  best 
to  give  every  woman  one  period  of  triumph  and  con- 
quest ;  perhaps  only  they  know  its  full  sweetness  to 
whom  it  comes  late.  In  early  youth  it  is  accepted  un- 
thinkingly, as  is  the  sunshine,  —  enjoyed  without  de- 
liberation, and  only  weighed  at  its  fullness  when  it  is 
over.  But  a  woman  who  begins  at  thirty  to  feel  for 
Jhe  first  time  what  it  is  to  have  power  over  men,  must 
be  more  or  less  than  woman  not  to  find  the  knowledge 
and  the  consciousness  dangerously  sweet 

I    never  knew — I  do   not   know  to-day,   whethei 


28o  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Emma  Long  could  be  justly  called  a  coquette.  That 
she  keenly  enjoyed  the  admiration  of  men,  there  was 
no  doubt.  Whether  she  ever  were  conscious  of  even 
a  possible  harm  to  them  from  their  relation  to  her, 
there  was  always  doubt,  even  in  the  minds  of  her 
bitterest  enemies.  I  myself  have  never  doubted  that 
in  the  affair  between  her  and  John  Gray  she  was  the 
one  who  suffered  most ;  she  was  the  one  who  had  a  true, 
deep  sentiment,  and  not  only  never  meant  a  wrong, 
but  would  have  shrunk,  for  his  sake,  if  not  for  her 
own,  from  the  dangers  which  she  did  not  foresee,  but 
which  were  inevitable  in  their  intimacy.  I  think  that 
her  whole  life  afterward  proved  this.  I  think  that 
even  my  sister  believed  it. 

Mrs.  Long  had  spent  six  weeks  in  my  sister's  house, 
and  had  then  established  herself  in  a  very  beautiful 
furnished  house  on  the  same  street.  Almost  every 
day  Mrs.  Long's  carriage  was  at  my  sister's  door,  to 
take  ray  sister  or  the  children  to  drive.  Almost  every 
evening  Mrs.  Long  came  wdth  the  easy  familiarity  of 
an  habituated  guest  in  the  house,  to  sit  in  my  sister's 
parlor,  or  sent  with  the  easy  familiarity  of  an  old  friend 
for  my  sister  and  her  husband  to  come  to  her,  or  to 
go  with  her  to  the  theatre  or  to  the  opera. 

What  could  be  more  natural  ?  —  what  could  be  more 
delightful,  had  the  relation  been  one  which  centred 
around  my  sister  instead  of  around  my  sister's  hus- 
band ?  What  could  be  done,  wdiat  offense  could  be 
taken,  what  obstacle  interposed,  so  long  as  the  relation 
appeared  to  be  one  which  included  the  whole  family  ? 
Vet  no  human  being  could  see  John  Gray  five  minutes 
in  Emma  Long's  presence  without  observing  that  hin 


HOW  ONE    WOMAy  KEPT  HER   HUSBAND.    28 1 

eyes,  his  words,  his  consciousness  were  hers.  And  no 
one  could  observe  her  in  his  presence  without  seeing 
that  she  was  kindled,  stimulated,  as  she  was  in  no 
other  companionship. 

All  this  the  city  had  been  seeing  and  gossiping  over 
for  four  months.  All  this,  with  weary  detail,  was 
poured  into  my  ears  by  kind  friends. 

My  sister  said  no  word.  For  the  first  time  in  my 
life  there  was  a  barrier  between  us  I  dared  not  pass. 
Her  every  allusion  to  Mrs.  Long  was  in  the  kindest 
and  most  unembarrassed  manner.  She  fell  heartily 
and  graciously  into  every  plan  which  brought  them 
together  :  she  not  only  did  this,  she  also  fully  recipro- 
cated all  entertainments  and  invitations  j  it  was  as 
often  by  Ellen's  arrangement  as  by  Mrs.  Long's  that 
an  evening  or  a  day  was  spent  by  the  two  families  to- 
gether. Her  manner  to  Mrs.  Long  was  absolutely 
unaltered.  Her  manner  to  John  was  absolutely  un- 
altered. When  during  an  entire  evening  he  sat  almost 
motionless  and  often  quite  speechless,  listening  to 
Mrs.  Long's  conversation  with  others,  Ellen's  face 
never  changed.  She  could  not  have  seemed  more 
unconscious  if  she  had  been  blind.  There  were 
many  bonds  of  sympathy  between  John  Gray  and 
Emma  Long,  which  had  never  existed  between  him 
and  his  wife.  They  were  both  passionately  fond  of 
art,  and  had  studied  it.  Ellen's  taste  was  undevel- 
oped, and  her  instinctive  likings  those  of  a  child. 
But  she  listened  with  apparent  satisfaction  and  pleas- 
ure to  long  hours  of  conversation,  about  statues,  pic- 
tures, principles  of  art,  of  which  she  was  as  unable 
to  speak  as  one  of  her  own  babies  would  have  been. 


282  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Mrs.  Long  was  also  a  woman  who  understood  affairs; 
and  one  of  her  great  charms  to  men  of  mind  was  the 
clear,  logical,  and  yet  picturesque  and  piquant  way  in 
which  she  talked  of  men  and  events.  Ellen  listened 
and  laughed  as  heartily  as  any  member  of  the  circle  at 
her  repartee,  her  brilliant  characterization,  her  off- 
hand description. 

To  John  Gray  all  this  was  a  new  revelation.  He 
had  never  known  this  sort  of  woman.  That  a  woman 
could  be  clever  as  men  are  clever,  and  also  be  grace- 
ful, adorned,  and  tender  with  womanliness,  he  had  not 
supposed. 

Ah,  poor  Emma  Long  !  not  all  my  loyalty  to  my 
sister  ever  quite  stifled  in  my  heart  the  question 
whether  there  was  not  in  Mrs.  Long's  nature  something 
which  John  Gray  really  needed  —  something  which 
Ellen,  affectionate,  wise,  upright,  womanly  woman  as 
she  was,  could  never  give  to  any  man. 

The  winter  wore  on.  Idle  and  malicious  tongues 
grew  busier  and  busier.  Nothing  except  the  constant 
presence  of  my  sister  wherever  her  husband  and  Mrs. 
Long  were  seen  together,  prevented  the  scandal  from 
taking  the  most  offensive  shape.  But  Ellen  was  so 
wise,  so  watchful,  that  not  even  the  most  malignant 
gossip-monger,  could  point  to  anything  like  a  clandes- 
tine intercourse  between  the  two. 

In  fact,  they  met  so  constantly  either  in  Mrs.  Long's 
house  or  my  sister's,  that  there  was  small  opportunity 
for  them  to  meet  elsewhere.  I  alone  knew  that  on 
many  occasions  when  Mrs.  Long  was  spending  the 
evening  at  our  house,  Ellen  availed  herself  of  one 
excuse  and  another  to  leave  them  alone  for  a  great 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    283 

part  of  the  time.  But  she  did  this  so  naturally,  that 
is,  with  such  perfect  art,  that  not  until  long  afterward 
did  I  know  that  it  had  been  intentional.  This  was 
one  great  reason  of  my  silence  daring  all  these 
months.  In  her  apparent  ignorance  and  unsuspicious- 
ness  of  the  whole  thing,  she  seemed  so  gay,  so  happy, 
so  sweet  and  loving,  how  could  I  give  her  a  pain  ? 
And  if  she  did  not  see  it  now,  she  might  never  see 
it.  It  could  never  surely  become  any  more  apparent. 
No  man  could  give,  so  far  as  simple  manner  was  con- 
cerned, more  unmistakable  proof  of  being  absorbed  in 
passionate  love  for  a  woman,  than  John  Gray  gave  in 
Emma  Long's  presence.  I  began  to  do  Ellen  injustice 
in  my  thoughts.  I  said,  ''  After  all,  she  has  not  much 
heart ;  no  woman  who  loved  a  man  passionately  could 
look  on  unmoved  and  see  him  so  absorbed  in  another." 

How  little  I  knew  !  Towards  spring  Ellen  suddenly 
began  to  look  ill.  She  lost  color  and  strength,  and 
a  slight  cough  which  she  had  had  all  winter  became 
very  severe.  Her  husband  was  alarmed.  We  all 
were  distressed.  Our  old  family  physician.  Dr.  Willis, 
changed  color  when  he  felt  Ellen's  pulse,  and  said,  in- 
voluntarily, — 

"  My  dear  child,  how  long  have  you  had  such  fever 
as  this  ?  " 

Ellen  changed  color  too,  under  his  steady  look,  and 
replied,  — 

"  I  think,  doctor,  I  have  had  a  little  fever  for  some 
weeks.  I  have  not  felt  really  well  since  the  autumn, 
and  I  have  been  meaning  for  some  time  to  have  a 
.ong  consultation  with  you.  But  we  will  not  have  it 
now,"  she  added  playfully,  "  I  have  a  great  deal  to 


284  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

tell  you  which  these  good  people  are  not  to  hear. 
We  will  talk  it  over  some  other  time,"  and  she 
looked  at  him  so  meaningly  that  he  understood  the 
subject  must  be  dropped. 

That  night  she  told  me  that  she  wished  me  :o 
propose  to  John  to  go  over  with  me  and  spend  the 
evening  at  Mrs.  Long's ;  that  she  had  sent  for  Dr. 
Willis,  and  she  wished  to  have  a  long  talk  with  him 
without  Joh'-'s  knowing  it. 

"  Dear,'"  said  I  hastily,  "  I  will  not  go  to  Mrs. 
Long's  with  John.     I  hate  Mrs.  Long." 

"Why,  Sally,  what  do  you  mean  !  I  never  heard  you 
so  unjust.  Emma  is  one  of  the  very  sweetest  women 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing ! 
Everybody  loves  and  admires  her.  Don't  go  if  you 
feel  so.  I  never  dreamed  that  you  disliked  her.  But 
I  thought  John  would  be  less  likely  to  suspect  me 
of  any  desire  to  have  him  away,  if  you  proposed 
going  there ;  and  I  must  have  him  out  of  the  house. 
I  cannot  talk  with  the  doctor  if  he  is  under  the 
roof"  She  said  these  last  words  with  an  excited 
emphasis  so  unlike  her  usual  manner,  that  it  fright- 
ened me.  But  I  thought  only  of  her  physical  state  \ 
I  feared  that  she  suspected  the  existence  of  some 
terrible  disease. 

I  went  with  John  to  Mrs.  Long's  almost  immediately 
after  tea.  He  accepted  the  proposal  with  unconcealed 
delight ;  and  I  wondered  if  Ellen  observed  the  very 
nonchalant  way  in  which  he  replied  when  she  said 
she  did  not  feel  well  enough  to  go.  He  already  liked 
better  to  see  Mrs.  Long  without  his  wife's  presence, 
cordial  and  unembarrassed  as  her  manner  always  was. 
His  secret  consciousness  was  always  disturbed  by  it. 


HO IV  ONE   WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    285 

When  we  reached  Mrs.  Long's  house,  we  learned 
that  she  had  gone  out  to  dinner.  John's  face  became 
black  with  the  sudden  disappointment,  and  quite  for- 
getting himself,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Why,  what  does  that 
mean  ?     She  did  not  tell  me  she  was  going." 

The  servant  stared,  but  made  no  reply.  I  was  con- 
fused and  indignant ;  but  John  went  on :  "  We  will 
come  in  and  wait.  I  am  sure  it  is  some  very  informal 
dinner,  and  Mrs.  Long  will  soon  be  at  home." 

I  made  no  remonstrance,  knowing  that  it  might  an- 
noy and  disturb  Ellen  to  have  us  return.  John  threw 
himself  into  a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  looked 
moodily  into  the  coals,  making  no  attempt  at  conver- 
sation. I  took  up  a  book.  Very  soon  John  rose, 
sauntered  abstractedly  about  the  room,  took  up  Mrs. 
Long's  work-basket,  and  examined  every  article  in  it, 
and  at  last  sat  down  before  her  little  writing-desk, 
which  stood  open.  Presently  I  saw  that  he  was 
writing.  More  than  an  hour  passed.  I  pretended  to 
read ;  but  I  watched  my  brother-in-law's  face.  I 
could  not  mistake  its  language.  Suddenly  there  came 
a  low  cry  of  delight  from  the  door,  "  Why,  John  !  " 

Mrs.  Long  had  entered  the  house  by  a  side  door, 
and  having  met  no  servant  before  reaching  the  draw- 
ing-room, was  unprepared  for  finding  any  one  there. 
From  the  door  she  could  see  John,  but  could  not  see 
me,  except  in  the  long  mirror,  to  which  she  did  not 
raise  her  eyes,  but  in  which  I  saw  her  swift  movement, 
her  outstretched  hands,  her  look  of  unspeakable  glad< 
ness.  In  less  than  a  second,  however,  she  had  seen 
me,  and  with  no  perceptible  change  of  manner  had 
come  rapidly  towards  me,  holding  out  her  left  hand 


286  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

familiarly  to  him,  as  she  passed  him.  Emma  Long 
was  not  a  hypocrite  at  heart,  but  she  had  an  almost 
superhuman  power  of  acting.  It  was  all  lost  upon 
me,  however,  on  that  occasion.  I  observed  the  quick 
motion  with  which  John  thrust  into  a  compartment  of 
the  desk,  the  sheet  on  which  he  had  been  writing  ;  I 
observed  the  clasp  of  their  hand^  as  she  glided  by 
him  ;  I  observed  her  face ;  I  observed  his  ;  and  I  knew 
as  I  had  never  fully  known  before  how  intensely  they 
loved  each  other. 

My  resolution  was  taken.  Cost  what  it  might,  come 
what  might,  I  would  speak  fully  and  frankly  to  my 
sister  the  next  day.  I  would  not  longer  stand  by  and 
see  this  thing  go  on.  At  that  moment  I  hated  both 
John  Gray  and  Emma  Long.  No  possible  pain  to 
Ellen  seemed  to  me  to  weigh  for  a  moment  against  my 
impulse  to  part  them. 

I  could  not  talk.  I  availed  myself  of  the  freedom 
warranted  by  the  intimacy  between  the  families,  and 
continued  to  seem  absorbed  in  my  book.  But  I  lost 
no  word,  no  look,  which  passed  between  the  two  who 
sat  opposite  me.  I  never  saw  Emma  Long  look  so 
nearly  beautiful  as  she  did  that  night.  She  wore  a 
black  velvet  dress,  with  fine  white  lace  ruffles  at  the 
throat  and  wrists.  Her  hair  was  fair,  and  her  com- 
plexion of  that  soft  pale  tint,  with  a  slight  undertone 
of  brown  in  it,  which  is  at  once  fair  and  warm,  and 
which  can  kindle  in  moments  of  excitement  into  a 
brilliance  far  outshining  any  brunette  skin.  She 
talked  rapidly  with  much  gesture.  She  was  giving 
John  an  account  of  the  stupidity  of  the  people  with 
ftrhom  she  had  been  dining.     Her    imitative  faculty 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    28; 

amounted  almost  to  genius.  No  smallest  peculiarity 
of  manner  or  speech  escaped  her,  and  she  could 
become  a  dozen  different  persons  in  a  minute.  John 
laughed  as  he  listened,  but  not  so  heartily  as  he  was 
wont  to  laugh  at  her  humorous  sayings.  He  had  been 
too  deeply  stirred  in  the  long  interval  of  solitude 
before  she  returned.  His  cheeks  were  flushed  and 
his  voice  unsteady.  She  soon  felt  the  effect  of  his 
manner,  and  her  gayety  died  away  ;  before  long  they 
were  sitting  in  silence,  each  looking  at  the  fire.  I 
knew  I  ought  to  make  the  proposition  to  go  home,  but 
I  seemed  under  a  spell  ;  I  was  conscious  of  a  morbid 
desire  to  watch  and  wait.  At  length  Mrs.  Long  rose, 
saying,  — 

"  If  it  will  not  disturb  Sally's  reading,  I  will  play 
for  you  a  lovely  little  thing  I  learned  yesterday." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  I.  "  But  we  must  go  as  soon  as  I 
finish  this  chapter." 

She  passed  into  the  music-room  and  looked  back 
for  John  to  follow  her ;  but  he  threw  himself  at  full 
length  on  the  sofa,  and  said,  — 

"  No,  I  will  listen  here." 

My  quickened  instinct  saw  that  he  dared  not  go  ; 
also  that  he  had  laid  his  cheek  in  an  abandonment  of 
ecstasy  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa  on  which  her  hand  had 
been  resting.  Even  in  that  moment  I  had  a  sharp 
pang  of  pity  for  him,  and  the  same  old  misgiving  of 
question,  whether  my  good  and  sweet  and  almost 
fauUless  Ellen  could  be  loved  just  in  the  same  way  in 
which  Emma  Long  would  be  ! 

As  soon  as  she  had  finished  the  nocturne,  a  sad, 
ow  sweet  strain,  she  came  back   to  the  parlor.     Not 


288  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

even  for  the  pleasure  of  giving  John  the  delight  of 
the  music  he  loved  would  she  stay  where  she  could 
not  see  his  face. 

But  I  had  already  put  down  my  book,  and  was 
ready  to  go.  Our  good-nights  were  short  and  more 
formal  than  usual.  All  three  were  conscious  of  an 
undefined  constraint  in  the  air.  Mrs.  Long  glanced 
up  uneasily  in  John's  face  as  we  left  the  room.  Her 
eyes  were  unutterably  tender  and  childlike  when  a 
look  of  grieved  perplexity  shadowed  them.  Again 
my  heart  ached  for  her  and  for  him.  This  was  no  idle 
caprice,  no  mere  entanglement  of  senses  between  two 
unemployed  and  unprincipled  hearts.  It  was  a  subtle 
harmony,  organic,  spiritual,  intellectual,  between  two 
susceptible  and  intense  natures.  The  bond  was  as 
natural  and  inevitable  as  any  other  fact  of  nature. 
And  in  this  very  fact  lay  the  terrible  danger. 

We  walked  home  in  silence,  A  few  steps  from  our 
house  we  met  Dr.  Willis  walking  very  rapidly.  He 
did  not  recognize  us  at  first.  When  he  did,  he  half 
stopped  as  if  about  to  speak,  then  suddenly  changed 
his  mind,  and  merely  bowing,  passed  on.  A  bright 
light  was  burning  in  Ellen's  room. 

"  Why,  Ellen  has  not  gone  to  bed  ! "  exclaimed 
John. 

"  Perhaps  some  one  called,"  said  I,  guiltily. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,"  replied  he  ;  "  perhaps  the  doctor 
has  been  there.  But  it  is  half-past  twelve,"  added  he, 
pulling  out  his  watch  as  we  entered  the  hall.  "  He 
could  not  have  stayed  until  this  time." 

I  went  to  my  own  room  immediately.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments I    heard   John    come   up,  say    a  few  words  to 


ffOlV  ONE   WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    289 

Ellen,  and  then  go  down-stairs,  calling  back,  as  he  left 
her  room,  — 

"Don't  keep  awake  for  me,  wifie,  I  have  a  huge 
batch  of  letters  to  answer.  I  shall  not  get  through 
before  three  o'clock." 

I  crept  noiselessly  to  Ellen's  room.  It  was  dark. 
She  had  extinguished  the  gas  as  soon  as  she  had  heard 
us  enter  the  house  !  I  knew  by  the  first  sound  of  her 
voice  that  she  had  been  weeping  violently  and  long. 
I  said,  — 

"Ellen,  I  must  come  in  and  have  a  talk  with  you." 
"  Not  to-night,  dear.     To-morrow  I   will  talk  over 
everything.     All  is  settled.     Good-night.     Don't  urge 
me  to-night,  Sally.     I  can't  bear  any  more." 

It  is  strange  —  it  is  marvellous  what  power  there  is 
in  words  to  mean  more  than  words.  I  knew  as  soon 
as  Ellen  had  said,  "Not  to-night,  dear,"  that  she 
divined  all  I  wanted  to  say,  that  she  knew  all  I  knew, 
and  that  the  final  moment,  the  crisis,  had  come. 
Whatever  she  might  have  to  tell  me  in  the  morning,  I 
should  not  be  surprised.  I  did  not  sleep.  All  night 
I  tossed  wearily,  trying  to  conjecture  what  Ellen  would 
do,  trying  to  imagine  what  I  should  do  in  her  place. 

At  breakfast  Ellen  seemed  better  than  she  had 
seemed  for  weeks.  Her  eyes  were  bright  and  her 
cheeks  pink;  but  there  was  an  ineffable,  almost 
solemn  tenderness  in  her  manner  to  John,  which  was 
pathetic.  Again  the  suspicion  crossed  my  mind  that 
she  knew  that  she  must  die.  He  too  was  disturbed  by 
it ;  he  looked  at  her  constantly  with  a  lingering  gaze  as 
if  trying  to  read  her  face  ;  and  when  he  bade  us  good- 
by  to  go  to  the  office,  he  kissed  her  over  and  over  as 
19 


290  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

I  had  not  seen  him  kiss  her  for  months.  The  tears 
came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  threw  both  arms  around 
his  neck  for  a  second,  —  a  very  rare  thing  for  her  to 
do  in  the  presence  of  others. 

"  Why,  wifie,"  he  said^  "  you  musn't  make  it  too 
hard  for  a  fellow  to  get  off!  —  Doesn't  she  look  well 
this  morning,  Sally  ? "  turning  to  me.  "  I  was  think- 
ing last  night  that  I  must  take  her  to  the  mountains 
as  soon  as  it  was  warm  enough.  But  such  cheeks 
as  these  don't  need  it."  And  he  took  her  face  in  his 
two  hands  with  a  caress  full  of  tenderness,  and  sprang 
down  the  steps. 

Just  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Long's  carriage  came 
driving  swiftly  around  the  corner,  and  the  driver  stop- 
ped suddenly  at  sight  of  John. 

''  Oh,  Mr.  Gray,  Mr.  Gray  !  "  called  Emma,  "  I  was 
just  coming  to  take  Ellen  and  the  children  for  a  turn, 
and  we  can  leave  you  at  the  office  on  our  way." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  John,  "  but  there  are  several 
persons  I  must  see  before  going  to  the  office,  and  it 
would  detain  you  too  long.  I  am  already  much  too 
late,"  and  without  a  second  look  he  hurried  on. 

I  saw  a  slight  color  rise  in  Mrs.  Long's  cheek,  but 
no  observer  less  jealous  than  I  would  have  detected 
it ;  and  there  was  not  a  shade  less  warmth  than  usual 
in  her  manner  to  Ellen. 

Ellen  told  her  that  she  could  not  go  herself,  but  she 
would  be  very  glad  to  have  some  of  the  children  go ; 
and  then  she  stood  for  some  moments,  leaning  on  the 
carriage-door  and  talking  most  animatedly.  I  looked 
From  one  woman  to  the  other.  Ellen  at  that  moment 
s^'as  more  beautiful  than    Mrs.    Long.      The  strong, 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    29 1 

serene,  upright  look  which  was  her  most  distinguishing 
and  characteristic  expression,  actually  shone  on  her 
face.  I  wished  that  John  Gray  had  stopped  to  see  the 
two  faces  side  by  side.  Emma  Long  might  be  the 
woman  to  stir  and  thrill  and  entrance  the  soul ;  to  give 
stimulus  to  the  intellectual  nature  ;  to  rouse  passionate 
emotion  ;  but  Ellen  was  the  woman  on  whose  stead- 
fastness he  could  rest,  —  in  the  light  of  whose  sweet 
integrity  and  transparent  truthfulness  he  was  a  far 
safer,  and  would  be  a  far  stronger  man  than  with  any 
other  woman  in  the  world. 

As  the  carriage  drove  away  with  all  three  of  the  little 
girls  laughing  and  shouting  and  clinging  around  Mrs. 
Long,  a  strange  pang  seized  me.  I  looked  at  Ellen. 
She  stood  watching  them  wdth  a  smile  which  had 
something  heavenly  in  it.  Turning  suddenly  to  me, 
she  said :  ''  Sally,  if  I  were  dying,  it  would  make  me 
very  happy  to  know  that  Emma  Long  would  be  the 
mother  of  my  children." 

I  was  about  to  reply  with  a  passionate  ejaculation, 
but  she  interrupted  me. 

"  Hush,  dear,  hush.  I  am  not  going  to  die,  —  I 
have  no  fear  of  any  such  thing.  Come  to  my  room 
now,  and  I  will  tell  you  all." 

She  locked  the  door,  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
at  me  very  earnestly,  then  folded  me  in  her  arms  and 
kissed  me  many  times  ;  then  she  made  me  sit  in  a 
large  arm-chair,  and  drawing  up  a  low  foot-stool,  sat 
down  at  my  feet,  rested  both  arms  on  my  lap,  and  be- 
gan to  speak.  I  shall  try  to  tell  in  her  own  words 
what  she  said. 

"  Sally,  I  want  to  tell  you  in  the  beginning  how  I 


292  SAXE  HOLM  S  STORIES. 

thank  you  for  your  silence.  All  winter  I  have  known 
that  you  were  seeing  all  I  saw,  feeling  all  I  felt,  and 
keeping  silent  for  my  sake.  I  never  can  tell  you  how 
much  I  thank  you ;  it  was  the  one  thing  which  sup- 
ported me.  It  was  an  unspeakable  comfort  to  know 
that  you  sympathized  with  me  at  every  point ;  but  to 
have  had  the  sympathy  expressed  even  by  a  look 
would  have  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  bear  up.  As 
long  as  I  live,  darling,  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you. 
And,  moreover,  it  makes  it  possible  for  me  to  trust 
you  unreservedly  now.  I  had  always  done  you  injustice, 
Sally.     I  did  not  think  you  had  so  much  self-control." 

Here  she  hesitated  an  instant.  It  was  not  easy  for 
her  to  mention  John's  name  ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  sec- 
ond that  she  hesitated.  With  an  impetuous  eagerness 
unlike  herself,  she  went  on. 

"  Sally,  you  must  not  blame  John.  He  has  strug- 
gled as  constantly  and  nobly  as  a  man  ever  struggled. 
Neither  must  you  blame  Emma.  They  have  neither 
of  them  done  wrong.  I  have  watched  them  both 
hour  by  hour.  I  know  my  husband's  nature  so  thor- 
oughly that  I  know  his  very  thoughts  almost  as  soon 
as  he  knows  them  himself  I  know  his  emotions 
before  he  knows  them  himself  I  saw  the  first  mo- 
ment in  which  his  eyes  rested  on  Emma's  face  as 
they  used  to  rest  on  mine.  From  that  day  to  this 
I  have  known  every  phase,  every  step,  every  change 
of  his  feeling  towards  her ;  and  I  tell  you,  Sally,  that 
I  pity  John  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I  under- 
stand it  all  far  better  than  you  can,  far  better  than  he 
does.  He  loves  her  at  once  far  more  and  far  less 
than  you  believe,  and  he  loves  me  far  more  than  you 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    293 

believe !  You  will  say,  in  the  absolute  idealization  of 
your  inexperienced  heart,  that  this  is  impossible.  I 
know  that  it  is  not,  and  I  wish  I  could  make  you 
believe  it,  for  without  believing  it  you  cannot  be  just 
to  John.  He  loves  me  to-day,  in  spite  of  all  this, 
with  a  sort  of  clinging  tenderness  born  of  this  very 
struggle.  He  would  far  rather  love  me  with  all  his 
nature  if  he  could,  but  just  now  he  cannot.  I  see 
very  clearly  where  Emma  gives  him  what  he  needs, 
and  has  never  had  in  me.  I  have  learned  many 
things  from  Emma  Long  this  winter.  I  can  never  be 
like  her.  But  I  need  not  have  been  so  unlike  her  as  I 
was.  She  has  armed  me  with  weapons  when  she  least 
suspected  it.  But  she  is  not  after  all,  on  the  whole, 
so  nearly  what  John  needs  as  I  am.  If  I  really  be- 
lieved that  he  would  be  a  better  man,  or  even  a  hap- 
pier one  with  her  as  his  wife,  I  should  have  but  one 
desire,  and  that  would  be  to  die.  But  I  think  that  it  is 
not  so.  I  believe  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  do  for  him, 
and  to  be  to  him,  what  she  never  could.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  you  look  pityingly  and  incredulously. 
You  will  see.  But  in  order  to  do  this,  I  must  leave 
him." 

I  sprang  to  my  feet.  "  Leave  him !  Are  you 
mad?" 

"  No,  dear,  not  at  all ;  very  sane  and  very  deter- 
mined. I  have  been  for  six  months  coming  to  this 
resolve.  I  began  to  think  of  it  in  a  very  few  hours 
after  I  first  saw  him  look  at  Emma  as  if  he  loved  her. 
I  have  thought  of  it  day  and  night  since,  and  I  know 
[  am  right.  If  I  stay,  I  shall  lose  his  love.  If  I  go, 
I  shall  keep  it,  regain  it,  compel  it."     She  spoke  here 


294  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

more  hurriedly.  "  I  have  borne  now  all  I  can  bear 
without  betraying  my  pain  to  liim.  I  am  jealous  of 
Emma.  It  almost  kills  me  to  see  him  look  at  her, 
speak  to  her." 

"My  poor,  poor  darling!"  I  exclaimed;  "and  I 
have  been  thinking  you  did  not  feel  it !  " 

She  smiled  sadly,  and  tossed  back  the  sleeve  of  her 
wrapper  so  as  to  show  her  arm  to  the  shoulder.  I 
started.  It  was  almost  emaciated.  I  had  again  and 
again  in  the  course  of  the  winter  asked  her  why  she 
did  not  wear  her  usual  style  of  evening  dress,  and  she 
had  replied  that  it  was  on  account  of  her  cough. 

"  It  is  well  that  my  face  does  not  show  loss  of  flesh 
as  quickly  as  the  rest  of  my  body  does,"  she  said 
quietly.  "  I  have  lost  thirty-five  pounds  of  flesh  in 
four  months,  and  nobody  observed  it !  Yes,  dear,"  she 
went  on,  "  I  have  felt  it.  More  than  that,  I  have  felt 
it  increasingly  every  hour,  and  I  can  bear  no  more. 
Up  to  this  time  I  have  never  by  look  or  tone  shown  to 
John  that  I  knew  it.  He  wonders  every  hour  what  it 
means  that  I  do  not.  I  have  never  by  so  much  as  the 
slightest  act  watched  him.  I  have  seen  notes  in 
Emma's  handwriting  lying  on  his  desk,  and  I  have  left 
the  house  lest  I  might  be  tempted  to  read  them  !  I 
know  that  he  has  as  yet  done  no  clandestine  thing,  but 
at  any  moment  I  should  have  led  them  both  into  it  by 
showing  one  symptom  of  jealousy.  And  I  should  have 
roused  in  his  heart  a  feeling  of  irritation  and  impa- 
tience with  me,  which  would  have  done  in  one  hour 
more  to  intensify  his  love  for  her,  and  to  change  its 
nature  from  a  pure,  involuntary  sentiment  into  an  ac- 
knowledged and  guilty  one,  than  years  and  years  of 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    295 

free  intercourse  could  do.  But  I  have  reached  the 
limit  of  my  physical  endurance.  My  nerves  are  giv- 
ing away.  I  am  really  very  ill,  but  nothing  is  out  of 
order  in  my  body  aside  from  the  effects  of  this  anguish. 
A  month  more  of  this  would  make  me  a  hopelessly 
broken-down  woman.  A  month's  absence  from  the 
sight  of  it  will  almost  make  me  well." 

I  could  not  refrain  from  interrupting  her. 

"  Ellen,  you  are  mad  !  you  are  mad  !  You  mean  to 
go  away  and  leave  him  to  see  her  constantly  alone, 
unrestrained  by  your  presence  ?  It  has  almost  killed 
you  to  see  it.  How  can  you  bear  imagining  it,  know- 
ing it?" 

"  Better  than  I  can  bear  seeing  it,  far  better.  Be- 
cause I  have  still  undiminished  confidence  in  the  real 
lastingness  of  the  bond  between  John  and  me. 
Emma  Long  would  have  been  no  doubt  a  good,  a  very 
good  wife  for  him.  But  I  am  the  mother  of  his  chil- 
dren, and  just  so  surely  as  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is 
wrong,  he  will  return  to  me  and  to  them.  All  wrong 
things  are  like  diseases,  self-limited.  It  is  wrong  for 
a  man  to  love  any  woman  better  than  he  loves  his 
wife  ;  I  don't  deny  that,  dear,"  she  said,  half  smiling 
through  her  tears  at  my  indignant  face ;  "  but  a  man 
may  seem  to  do  it  when  he  is  really  very  far  from  it. 
He  may  really  do  it  for  days,  for  months  —  for  years, 
perhaps ;  but  if  he  be  a  true  man,  and  his  wife  a  true 
wife,  he  will  return.  John  is  a  true  husband  and  a 
Btill  truer  father :  that  I  am  the  mother  of  his  five 
thildren,  he  can  never  forget.  If  I  had  had  no  chil- 
dren, it  would  be  different.  If  I  had  ever  been  for  one 
naonent  an  unloving  wife,  it  would  be  different ;  but  I 


296  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

am  his  ;  I  believe  that  he  is  mine ;  and  that  I  shall 
live  to  remind  you  of  all  these  things,  Sally,  after 
time  has  proved  them  true." 

I  was  almost  dumb  with  surprise.  I  was  astounded. 
To  me  it  seemed  that  her  plan  was  simply  suicidal. 
I  told  her  in  the  strongest  words  I  could  use  of  the 
scene  of  the  night  before. 

"I  could  tell  you  of  still  more  trying  scenes  than 
that,  Sally.  I  know  far  more  than  you.  But  if  1 
knew  ten  times  as  much,  I  should  still  believe  that 
my  plan  is  the  only  one.  Of  course  I  may  fail.  It  i<^ 
all  in  God's  hands.  We  none  of  us  know  how  much 
discipline  we  need.  But  I  know  one  thing  :  if  I  d(? 
not  regain  John  in  this  way,  I  cannot  in  an3\  If  1 
stay  I  shall  annoy,  vex,  disturb,  torture  him  !  Once 
the  barriers  of  my  silence  and  concealment  are  broken 
down,  I  shall  do  just  what  all  other  jealous  women 
have  done  since  the  world  began.  There  are  no  tor- 
ments on  earth  like  those  which  a  jealous  woman  in- 
flicts, except  those  which  she  bears  !  I  will  die  sooner 
than  inflict  them  on  John.  Even  if  the  result  proves 
me  mistaken,  I  shall  never  regret  my  course,  for  I 
know  that  the  worst  is  certain  if  I  remain.  But  I  have 
absolute  faith,"  —  and  her  face  was  transfigured  with 
it  as  she  spoke,  —  "John  is  mine.  If  I  could  stay  by 
his  side  through  it  all  and  preserve  the  same  relation 
with  him  which  I  have  all  winter,  all  would  sooner 
or  later  be  well.  I  wish  I  were  strong  enough.  My 
heart  is,  but  my  body  is  not,  and  I  must  go." 

When  she  told  me  the  details  of  her  plan,  I  was 
more  astounded  than  ever.  She  had  taken  Dr.  Willis 
into  her  full  confidence.     (He  had  been  to  us  father 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    297 

and  physician  both  ever  since  our  father's  death.)  He 
entirely  approved  of  her  course.  He  was  to  say  — 
which  indeed  he  could  do  conscientiously  —  that  her 
health  imperatively  required  an  entire  change  of  cli- 
mate, and  that  he  had  advised  her  to  spend  at  least 
one  year  abroad.  It  had  always  been  one  of  John's 
and  Ellen's  air-castles  to  take  all  the  children  to  Eng- 
land and  to  Germany  for  some  years  of  study.  She 
proposed  to  take  the  youngest  four,  leaving  the  eldest 
girl,  who  was  her  father's  especial  pet  and  companion, 
to  stay  with  him.  A  maiden  aunt  of  ours  was  to  come 
and  keep  the  house,  and  I  was  to  stay  with  the  family. 
This  was  the  hardest  of  all. 

"Ellen,  I  cannot!"  I  exclaimed.  "Do  not  —  oh, 
do  not  trust  me.  I  shall  never  have  strength.  I  shall 
betray  all  some  day  and  ruin  all  your  hopes." 

"You  cannot,  you  dare  not,  Sally,  when  I  tell  you 
that  my  life's  whole  happiness  lies  in  your  silence. 
John  is  unobservant  and  also  unsuspicious.  He  has 
never  had  an  intimate  relation  with  you.  You  will 
have  no  difficulty.  But  you  must  be  here,  —  be- 
cause, dear,  there  is  another  reason,"  and  here  her 
voice  grew  very  unsteady,  and  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks. 

"  In  spite  of  all  my  faith,  I  do  not  disguise  from  my- 
self the  possibility  of  the  worst.  I  cannot  believe  my 
husband  would  ever  do  a  dishonorable  thing.  I  do 
tot  believe  that  Emma  Long  would.  And  yet,  when 
I  remember  what  ruin  has  overtaken  many  men  and 
women  whom  we  believed  upright,  I  dare  not  be  wholly 
ijure.  And  I  must  know  that  some  one  is  here  who 
«vould  see  and  understand  if  a  time  were  approaching 


298  SAKE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

at  which  it  would  be  needful  for  me  to  make  one  last 
effort  with  and  for  my  husband  face  to  face  with  him. 
Unless  that  comes,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  allude  to  the 
subject  in  your  letters.  I  think  I  know  just  how  all 
things  will  go.  I  believe  that  in  one  year,  or  less,  all 
will  be  well.  But  if  the  worst  is  to  come,  you  with 
your  instincts  will  foresee  it,  and  I  must  be  told.  I 
should  return  then  at  once.  I  should  have  power, 
even  at  the  last  moment,  I  believe,  to  save  John  from 
disgrace.  But  I  should  lose  his  love  irrecoverably ;  it 
is  to  save  that  that  I  go." 

I  could  say  but  few  words.  I  was  lifted  up  and 
borne  out  of  myself,  as  it  were,  by  my  sister's  exalta- 
tion. She  seemed  more  like  some  angel-wife  than  like 
a  mortal  woman.  Before  I  left  her  room  at  noon,  I 
believed  almost  as  fully  as  she  did  in  the  wisdom  and 
the  success  of  her  plan. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Every  day  between 
the  announcement  of  her  purpose  and  the  carrying  of 
it  out,  would  be  a  fearful  strain  on  Ellen's  nerves. 
Dr.  Willis  had  a  long  talk  with  John  in  his  office  while 
Ellen  was  talking  with  me.  John  came  home  to  din- 
ner looking  like  a  man  who  had  received  a  mortal 
blow.  Dr.  Willis  had  purposely  given  him  to  under- 
stand that  Ellen's  life  was  in  great  danger.  So  it  was, 
but  not  from  the  cough !  At  first  John's  vehement 
purpose  was  to  go  with  them.  But  she  was  prepared 
for  this.  His  business  and  official  relations  were  such 
that  it  was  next  to  impossible  for  him  to  do  it,  and  it 
would  at  best  involve  a  great  pecuniary  sacrifice.  She 
:)verruled  and  remonstrated,  and  was  so  firm  in  her 
objections  to  every  suggestion  of  his  of  accompanying 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    299 

or  following  her,  that  finally,  in  spite  of  all  his  anxiety, 
John  seemed  almost  piqued  at  her  preference  for  going 
alone.  In  every  conversation  on  the  subject  I  saw 
more  and  more  clearly  that  Ellen  was  right.  He  did 
love  her  —  love  her  warmly,  devotedly. 

Two  weeks  from  the  day  of  my  conversation  with 
her  they  sailed  for  Liverpool.  The  summer  was  to  be 
spent  in  England,  and  the  winter  in  Nice  or  Mentone. 

Alice,  the  eldest  daughter,  a  loving,  sunshiny  girl 
of  twelve,  was  installed  in  her  mother's  room.  This 
was  Ellen's  especial  wish.  She  knew  that  in  this  way 
John  would  be  drawn  to  the  room  constantly.  All 
her  own  little  belongings  were  given  to  Alice. 

"Only  think,  Auntie,"  said  she,  "mamma  has  given 
me,  all  for  my  own,  her  lovely  toilette  set,  and  all  the 
Bohemian  glass  on  the  bureau,  and  her  ivory  brushes ! 
She  says  when  she  comes  home  she  shall  refurnish 
her  room  and  papa's  too  !  " 

Oh,  my  wise  Ellen.  Could  Emma  Long  have  done 
more  subtly ! 

Early  on  the  first  evening  after  John  returned  from 
New  York,  having  seen  them  off,  I  missed  him.  I 
said  bitterly  to  myself,  "  At  Mrs.  Long's,  I  suppose," 
and  went  up-stairs  to  find  Alice.  As  I  drew  near  her 
room  I  heard  his  voice,  reading  aloud.  I  went  in. 
He  and  Alice  were  lying  together  on  a  broad  chintz- 
covered  lounge,  as  I  had  so  often  seen  him  and 
Ellen. 

"  Oh,  Auntie,  come  here,"  said  Alice,  "  hear  mam- 
ma's letter  to  me  !  She  gave  it  to  papa  in  New  York. 
She  says  it  is  like  the  sealed  orders  they  give  to  cap- 
tains sometimes,  not  to  be  opened  till  they  are  out  al 


300  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

sea.  It  is  all  about  how  I  am  to  fill  her  place  to  papa. 
And  there  are  ever  so  many  little  notes  inside,  more 
orders,  which  even  papa  himself  is  not  to  see  !  only  I 
suppose  he'll  recognize  the  things  when  I  do  them  !  " 

At  that  moment,  as  I  watched  John  Gray's  face, 
with  Alice's  nestled  close,  and  his  arms  clasped  tight 
around  her,  while  they  read  Ellen's  letter,  a  great  load 
rolled  off  my  heart.  I  went  through  many  dark  days 
afterward,  but  I  never  could  quite  despair  when  I 
remembered  the  fatherhood  and  the  husbandhood 
which  were  in  his  eyes  and  his  voice  that  night. 

The  story  of  the  next  twelve  months  could  be  told 
in  few  words,  so  far  as  its  external  incidents  are 
concerned.  It  could  not  be  told  in  a  thousand  vol- 
umes, if  I  attempted  to  reproduce  the  subtle  under- 
currents of  John  Gray's  life  and  mine.  Each  of  us  was 
living  a  double  life ;  he  more  or  less  unconsciously  ; 
I  with  such  sharpened  senses,  such  overwrought 
emotions,  that  I  only  wonder  that  my  health  did  not 
give  way.  I  endured  vicariously  all  the  suspense  and 
torment  of  the  deepest  jealousy,  with  a  sense  of  more 
than  vicarious  responsibility  added,  which  was  almost 
more  than  human  nature  could  bear.  Ellen  little 
knew  how  heavy  would  be  the  burden  she  laid  upon 
me.  Her  most  express  and  explicit  direction  was  that 
the  familiar  intimacy  between  our  family  and  Mrs. 
Long's  was  to  be  preserved  unaltered.  This  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  me  to  do  if  Mrs.  Long  had 
not  herself  recognized  the  necessity  of  it,  for  her  own 
full  enjoyment  of  John's  society.  But  it  was  a  hard 
thing ;  my  aunt,  the  ostensible  head  of  our  house, 
was  a  quiet  woman  who  had  nothing  whatever  to   do 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    30 1 

with  society,  and  who  felt  in  the  outset  a  great 
shrinking  from  the  brilliant  Mrs.  Long.  I  had  never 
been  on  intimate  terms  with  her,  so  that  John  and 
Alice  were  really  the  only  members  of  the  household 
who  could  keep  up  precisely  the  old  relation.  And  so 
it  gradually  came  about  that  to  most  of  our  meetings 
under  each  other's  roofs,  strangers  were  asked  to  fill 
up  the  vacant  places,  and  in  spite  of  all  Emma  Long's 
efforts  and  mine,  there  was  a  change  in  the  atmosphere 
of  our  intercourse.  But  there  was  intimacy  enough  to 
produce  the  effect  for  which  Ellen  was  most  anxious, 
/.  e.,  to  extend  the  shelter  of  our  recognition  to  the 
friendship  between  John  and  Emma,  and  to  remove 
from  them  both  all  temptation  to  anything  clandestine 
or  secret.  They  still  saw  each  other  almost  daily  ; 
they  still  shared  most  of  each  other's  interests  and 
pleasures  ;  they  still  showed  most  undisguised  delight 
in  each  other's  presence.  Again  and  again  I  went 
with  them  to  the  opera,  to  the  theatre,  and  sat  through 
the  long  hours,  watching,  with  a  pain  which  seemed 
to  me  hardly  less  than  Ellen's  would  have  been,  their 
constant  sympathy  with  each  other  in  every  point  of 
enjoyment,  their  constant  forgetfulness  of  every  one 
else. 

But  there  was,  all  this  time,  another  side  to  John 
Gray's  life,  which  I  saw,  and  Emma  Long  did  not  see. 
By  every  steamer  came  packages  of  the  most  marvelous 
letters  from  Ellen  :  letters  to  us  all  ;  but  for  John,  a 
diary  of  every  hour  of  her  life.  Each  night  she  spent 
two  hours  in  writing  out  the  record  of  the  day.  I 
have  never  seen  letters  which  so  reproduced  the 
atmosphere  of  the  day,  the  scene,  the  heart.     They 


302  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

were  brilliant  and  effective  to  a  degree  that  utterly 
astonished  me  ;  but  they  were  also  ineffably  tender 
and  loving,  and  so  natural  in  their  every  word,  that 
it  was  like  seeing  Ellen  face  to  face  to  read  them.  At 
first  John  did  not  show  them  even  to  me  ;  but  soon  he 
began  to  say,  "  These  are  too  rare  to  be  kept  to  my- 
self; I  must  just  read  you  this  account;"  or,  "Here 
is  a  page  I  must  read,"  until  it  at  last  became  his 
habit  to  read  them  aloud  in  the  evenings  to  the  fam- 
ily, and  even  to  more  intimate  friends  who  chanced 
to  be  with  us.  He  grew  proud  beyond  expression  of 
Ellen's  talent  for  writing;  and  well  he  might  No 
one  who  listened  to  them  but  exclaimed,  "  There  never 
were  such  letters  before  !  "  I  think  there  never  were. 
And  I  alone  knew  the  secret  of  them. 

But  these  long,  brilliant  letters  were  not  all.  In 
every  mail  came  also  packages  for  Alice  —  secret, 
mysterious  things  which  nobody  could  see.  but  which 
proved  to  be  sometimes  small  notes,  to  be  given  to 
papa  at  unexpected  times  and  places  ;  sometimes  little 
fancy  articles,  as  a  pen -wiper,  or  a  cigar-case,  half 
worked  by  Ellen,  to  be  finished  by  Alice,  and  given 
to  papa  on  some  especial  day,  the  significance  of 
which  "only  mamma  knows;"  sometimes  a  pressed 
flower,  v/hich  \vas  to  be  put  by  papa's  plate  at  break- 
fast, or  put  in  papa's  button-hole  as  he  w^ent  out  in 
the  morning.  I  was  more  and  more  lost  in  astonish- 
ment at  the  subtle  and  boundless  art  of  love  which 
pould  so  contrive  to  reach  across  an  ocean,  and 
surround  a  man's  daily  life  with  its  expression.  There 
were  also  in  every  package,  letters  to  John  from  all 
the  children  :  even  the  baby's  little  hand  was  guided 


HOW  ONE    IVOMAN  KEPT  HER   HUSBAND.    303 

to  write  by  every  mail,  "  Dear  papa,  I  love  you  just 
as  much  as  all  the  rest  do  !  "  or^  "  Dear  papa,  I  want 
you  to  toss  me  up  ! "  More  than  once  I  saw  tears  roll 
down  John's  face  in  spite  of  him,  as  he  slowly  deci- 
phered these  illegible  little  scrawls.  The  older  chil- 
dren's notes  were  vivid  and  loving  like  their  mother's. 
It  was  evident  that  they  were  having  a  season  of  royal 
delight  in  their  journey,  but  also  evident  that  their 
thoughts  and  their  longings  were  constantly  reverting 
to  papa.  How  much  Ellen  really  indited  of  these 
apparently  spontaneous  letters  I  do  not  know ;  but 
no  doubt  their  tone  was  in  part  created  by  her.  They 
showed,  even  more  than  did  her  own  letters,  that  papa 
was  still  the  centre  of  the  family  life.  No  sight  was 
seen  without  the  wish  —  ''  Oh,  if  papa  were  here ! " 
and  even  little  Mary,  aged  five,  was  making  a  collec- 
tion of  pressed  leaves  for  papa,  from  all  the  places 
they  visited.  Louise  had  already  great  talent  for 
drawing,  and  in  almost  every  letter  came  two  or  three 
childish  but  spirited  little  pictures,  all  labelled"  Drawn 
for  papa !  "  "  The  true  picture  of  our  courier  in  a  rage, 
for  papa  to  see."  "The  washerwoman's  dog,  for 
papa,"  etc.,  etc.  Again  and  again  I  sat  by,  almost 
trembling  with  delight,  and  saw  John  spend  an  entire 
evening  in  looking  over  these  little  missives  and 
reading  Ellen's  letters.  Then  again  I  sat  alone  and 
anxious  through  an  entire  evening,  when  I  knew  he 
was  with  Emma  Long.  But  even  after  such  an  even- 
ing, he  never  failed  to  sit  down  and  write  pages  in  his 
journal-letter  to  Ellen  —  a  practice  which  he  began 
of  his  own  accord,  after  receiving  the  first  journal- 
letter  from  her. 


304  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"Ha!  little  Alice,"  he  said,  "we'll  keep  a  journal 
too,  for  mamma,  won't  we  !  She  shall  not  out-do  us 
that  way."  And  so,  between  Alice's  letters  and  his, 
the  whole  record  of  our  family  life  went  every  week 
to  Ellen;  and  I  do  not  believe,  so  utterly  unaware 
was  John  Gray  of  an}'  pain  in  his  wife's  heart  about 
Emma  Long,  I  do  not  believe  that  he  ever  in  a  single 
instance  omitted  to  mention  when  he  had  been  with 
her,  where,  and  how  long. 

Emma  Long  wrote  too,  and  Ellen  wrote  to  her 
occasional  affectionate  notes  ;  but  referring  her  always 
to  John's  diary-letters  for  the  details  of  interest.  I 
used  to  study  Mrs.  Long's  face  while  these  letters 
were  read  to  her.  John's  animated  delight,  his  en- 
thusiastic pride,  must,  it  seemed  to  me,  have  been 
bitter  to  her.  But  I  never  saw  even  a  shade  of  such 
a  feeling  in  her  face.  There  was  nothing  base  or  petty 
in  Emma  Long's  nature,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
she  did  love  Ellen.  Only  once  did  I  ever  see  a  trace 
of  pique  or  resentment  in  her  manner  to  John,  and 
then  I  could  not  wonder  at  it.  A  large  package  had 
come  from  Ellen,  just  after  tea  one  night,  and  we 
were  all  gathered  in  the  library,  reading  our  letters 
and  looking  at  the  photographs  —  (she  always  sent 
unmounted  photographs  of  the  place  from  which  bhe 
wrote,  and,  if  possible,  of  the  house  in  which  they  were 
living,  and  the  children  often  wrote  above  the  windows, 
'■^  Papa^s  and  mamma's  room,"  etc,  etc.) —  hour  after 
hour  passed.  The  hall  clock  had  just  struck  ten,  when 
the  door-bell  rang  violently.  "  Good  heavens  1 "  ex- 
claimed John,  springing  up,  "  that  must  be  Mrs. 
Long  ;  I  totally  forgot  that  I  had  promised  /o  go  with 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND,    3 05 

her  to  Mrs.  Willis's  party.  1  said  I  would  be  there  at 
nine  ;  tell  her  I  am  up-stairs  dressing,"  and  he  was 
gone  before  the  servant  had  had  time  to  open  the 
door.  Mrs.  Long  came  in,  with  a  flushed  face  and 
anxious  look.  "  Is  Mr.  Gray  ill .?  '-*  she  said.  "  He 
promised  to  call  for  me  at  nine,  to  go  to  Mrs.  Willis's, 
and  I  have  been  afraid  he  might  be  ill." 

Before  I  could  reply,  the  unconscious  Alice  ex- 
claimed, — 

"Oh,  no;  papa  isn't  ill;  he  is  so  sorry,  but  he 
forgot  all  about  the  party  till  he  heard  you  ring  the 
bell.     We  were  so  busy  over  mamma's  letters." 

"John  will  be  down  in  a  moment,"  added  I.  ''  He 
ran  up-stairs  to  dress  as  soon  as  you  rans-." 

For  one  second  Emma  Long's  face  was  sad  to  see. 
Such  astonishment,  such  pain,  were  in  it,  my  heart 
ached  for  her.  Then  a  look  of  angry  resentment 
succeeded  the  pain,  and  merely  saying,  "  I  am  very 
sorry ;  but  I  really  cannot  wait  for  him.  It  is  now 
almost  too  late  to  go,"  she  had  left  the  room  and 
closed  the  outer  door  before  I  could  think  of  any 
words  to  say. 

I  ran  up  to  John's  room,  and  told  him  through  the 
closed  door.  He  made  no  reply  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  — 

"  No  wonder  she  is  vexed.  It  was  unpardonable 
rudeness.  Tell  Robert  to  run  at  once  for  a  carriage 
for  me." 

In  a  very  few  moments  he  came  down   dressed  for 

the  party,  but  with  no  shadow  of  disturbance  on  his 

^ace.     He  was  still  thinking  of  the  letters.     He  took 

up  his  own,  and  putting  it  into  an  inside  breast-pocket, 

20 


306  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

said,  as  he  kissed  Alice,  "  Papa  will  take  mamma's 
letter  to  the  party,  if  he  can't  take  mamma  1  " 

I  shed  grateful  tears  that  night  before  I  went  to 
sleep.  How  I  longed  to  write  to  Ellen  of  the  inci- 
dent ;  but  I  had  resolved  not  once  to  disregard  her 
request  that  the  whole  subject  be  a  sealed  one.  And 
I  trusted  that  Alice  would  remember  to  tell  it.  Well 
I  might !    At  breakfast  Alice  said,  — 

"  Oh^  papa,  I  told  mamma  that  you  carried  her  to 
the  party  in  3^our  breast-pocket ;  that  is,  you  carried 
her  letter ! " 

I  fancied  that  John's  cheek  flushed  a  little  as  he 
said,  — 

"You  might  tell  mamma  that  papa  carries  her  every- 
where in  his  breast-pocket,  little  girlie,  and  mamma 
would  understand." 

I  think  from  that  day  I  never  feared  for  Ellen's 
future.  I  fancied,  too,  that  from  that  day  there  was 
a  new  light  in  John  Gray's  eyes.  Perhaps  it  might 
have  been  only  -the  new  light  in  my  own ;  but  I 
think  when  a  man  knows  that  he  has  once,  for  one 
hour,  forgotten  a  promise  to  meet  a  woman  whose 
presence  has  been  dangerously  dear  to  him,  he  must 
be  aware  of  his  dawning  freedom. 

The  winter  was  nearly  over.  Ellen  had  said  noth- 
ing to  us  about  returning. 

"  Dr.  Willis  tells  me  that,  from  what  Ellen  writes  to 
him  of  her  health,  he  thinks  it  would  be  safer  for  her 
"io  remain  abroad  another  year,"  said  John  to  me  one 
morning  at  breakfast. 

"  Oh,  she  never  will  stay  another  year !  "  exclaimed  I. 

"  Not  unless  I  go  out  to  stay  with  her,"  said  John, 
very  quietly. 


ffOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    307 

"  Oh,  John,  could  you  ? "  and,  "  Oh,  papa,  will  you 
take  me  ? "  exclaimed  Alice  and  I  in  one  breath. 

"Yes,"  and  ''yes,"  said  John,  laughing,  "  and  Sally 
too,  if  she  will  go." 

He  then  proceeded  to  tell  me  that  he  had  been  all 
winter  contemplating  this ;  that  he  believed  they 
would  never  again  have  so  good  an  opportunity  to 
travel  in  Europe,  and  that  Dr.  Willis's  hesitancy 
about  Ellen's  health  had  decided  the  question.  He 
had  been  planning  and  deliberating  as  silently  and 
unsuspectedly  as  Ellen  had  done  the  year  before. 
Never  once  had  it  crossed  my  mind  that  he  desired 
it,  or  that  it  could  be.  But  I  found  that  he  had  for 
the  last  half  of  the  year  been  arranging  his  affairs 
with  a  view  to  it,  and  had  entered  into  new  business 
connections  which  would  make  it  not  only  easy,  but 
profitable,  for  him  to  remain  abroad  two  years.  He 
urged  me  to  go  with  them,  but  I  refused.  I  felt  that 
the  father  and  the  mother  and  the  children  ought 
to  be  absolutely  alone  in  this  blessed  reunion,  and  I 
have  never  regretted  my  decision,  although  the  old 
world  is  yet  an  unknown  world  to  me. 

John  Gray  was  a  reticent  and  undemonstrative 
man,  in  spite  of  all  the  tenderness  and  passionate- 
ness  in  his  nature.  But  when  he  bade  me  good-by 
on  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  as  he  kissed  me  he 
whispered  :  — 

"  Sally,  I  shall  hold  my  very  breath  till  I  see  Ellen. 
I  never  knew  how  I  loved  her  before."  And  the  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes. 

I  never  saw  Emma  Long  after  she  knew  that  John 
was  to  go  abroad  to  join  Ellen.      I  found  myself  sud- 


308  SAXE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

denly  without  courage  to  look  in  her  face.  The  hurry 
of  my  preparations  for  Alice  was  ample  excuse  for 
my  not  going  to  her  house,  and  she  did  not  come  to 
ours.  I  knew  that  John  spent  several  evenings  with 
her,  and  came  home  late,  with  a  sad  and  serious  face, 
and  that  was  all.  A  week  before  he  sailed  she  joined 
a  large  and  gay  party  for  San  Francisco  and  the  Yosem- 
ite.  In  all  the  newspaper  accounts  of  the  excursion, 
Mrs.  Long  was  spoken  of  as  the  brilliant  centre  of  all 
festivities.  I  understood  well  that  this  was  the  first 
reaction  of  her  proud  and  sensitive  nature  under  an 

irremediable    pain.     She  never  returned  to  ,  but 

established  herself  in  a  Southern  city,  where  she  lived 
in  great  retirement  for  a  3'ear,  doing  good  to  all  poor 
and  suffering  people,  and  spending  the  larger  part  of 
her  fortune  in  charity.  Early  in  the  second  year  there 
was  an  epidemic  of  5'ellow  fever :  Mrs.  Long  refused 
to  leave  the  city,  and  went  as  fearlessly  as  the  physi- 
cians to  visit  and  nurse  the  worst  cases.  But  after 
the  epidemic  had  passed  by,  she  herself  was  taken  ill, 
and  died  suddenly  in  a  hospital  ward,  surrounded  by 
the  very  patients  whom  she  had  nursed  back  to  health. 
Nothing  I  could  say  in  my  own  words  would  give  so 
vivid  an  idea  of  the  meeting  between  John  Gray  and 
his  wife,  as  the  first  letter  which  I  received  from  little 
Alice  :  — 

'*  Darling  Auntie,  — 

"  It  is  too  bad  you  did  not  come  too.  The  voyage 
was  horrid.  Papa  was  so  much  sicker  than  I,  that  I 
had  to  take  care  of  him  all  the  time  ;  but  my  head 
Ached  so  that  I  kept  seeing  black  spots  if  I  stooped 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND,    309 

over  to  kiss  papa  ;  but  papa  said,  I  was  just  like  an- 
other mamma. 

*'  Oh,  Auntie,  only  think,  there  was  a  mistake  about 
the  letters,  and  mamma  never  got  the  letter  to  tell  her 
that  we  were  coming ;  and  she  was  out  on  the  balcony 
of  the  hotel  when  we  got  out  of  the  carriage,  and  first 
she  saw  me  ;  and  the  lady  who  was  with  her  said  she 
turned  first  red  and  then  so  white  the  lady  thought 
she  was  sick  ;  and  then  the  next  minute  she  saw  papa, 
and  she  just  fell  right  down  among  all  the  people,  and 
looked  as  if  she  was  dead  ;  and  the  very  first  thing 
poor  papa  and  I  saw,  when  we  got  up-stairs,  was 
mamma  being  carried  by  two  men,  and  papa  and  I 
both  thought  she  was  dead ;  and  papa  fell  right  down 
on  his  knees,  and  made  the  men  put  mamma  down  on 
the  floor,  and  everybody  talked  out  loud,  and  papa 
never  spoke  a  word,  but  just  looked  at  mamma,  and 
nobody  knew  who  papa  was  till  I  spoke,  and  I  said,  — 

"  '  That's  my  mamma,  and  papa  and  I  have  just 
come  all  the  way  from  America,"  —  and  then  a  gentle- 
man told  me  to  kiss  mamma,  and  I  did ;  and  then  she 
opened  her  eyes  ;  and  just  as  soon  as  she  saw  papa,  she 
got  a  great  deal  whiter  and  her  head  fell  back  again, 
and  I  was  so  sure  she  was  dying,  that  I  began  to  cry 
out  loud,  and  I  do  think  there  were  more  than  a  hun- 
dred people  all  round  us  ;  but  Louise  says  there  were 
only  ten  or  twelve  ;  and  then  the  same  gentleman  that 
told  me  to  kiss  mamma  took  hold  of  papa,  and  made 
him  go  away  ;  and  they  carried  mamma  into  a  room, 
and  laid  her  on  a  bed,  and  said  we  must  all  go  out; 
but  I  wouldn't :  I  got  right  under  the  bed,  and  they 
didn't  see  me ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  a  thousand  years 


3IO  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

before  anybody  spoke  ;  and  at  last  I  heard  mamma's 
voice,  just  as  weak  as  a  baby's  —  but  you  know  no- 
body could  mistake  mamma's  voice  ;  and  said  she, 
'  Where  is  John  —  I  saw  John  ; '  and  then  the  gentle- 
man said,  —  oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  he  was  a  doctor, 
—  he  said,  — 

"  'My  dear  madam,  calm  yourself  — and  then  I 
cried  right  out  again,  and  crept  out  between  his  legs 
and  almost  knocked  him  down  ;  and  said  I,  '  Don't 
you  try  to  calm  my  mamma  ;  it  is  papa  —  and  me  too, 
mamma  ! '  and  then  mamma  burst  out  crying  ;  and  then 
the  old  gentleman  ran  out,  and  I  guess  papa  was  at 
the  door,  for  he  came  right  in;  and  then  he  put  his 
arms  round  mamma,  and  they  didn't  speak  for  so  long, 
I  thought  I  should  die  ;  and  all  the  peojDle  were  listen- 
ing, and  going  up  and  down  in  the  halls  outside,  and 
I  felt  so  frightened  and  ashamed,  for  fear  people 
would  think  mamma  wasn't  glad  to  see  us.  But  papa 
says  that  is  always  the  way  when  people  are  more  glad 
than  they  can  bear;  and  the  surprise,  too,  was  too  much 
for  anybody.  But  I  said  at  the  tea-table  that  I  hoped 
I  should  never  be  so  glad  myself  as  long  as  I  lived  ; 
and  then  the  old  gentleman,  —  he's  a  very  nice  old 
gentleman,  and  a  great  friend  of  mamma's,  and  wears 
gold  spectacles,  —  he  said,  '  My  dear  little  girl,  I  hope 
you  may  be  some  day  just  as  glad,'  and  then  he  looked 
at  papa  and  mamma  and  smiled,  —  and  mamma  almost 
cried  again !  Oh,  altogether  it  was  a  horrid  time  ;  the 
worst  I  ever  had  ;  and  so  different  from  what  papa 
and  I  thought  it  would  be. 

"  But  it's  all  over  now,  and  we're  all  so  happy,  we 
laugh  so  all  the  time,  that  papa  says  it  is  disgraceful; 


HOW  ONE    WOMAN  KEPT  HER  HUSBAND.    311 

that  we  shall  have  to  go  off  and  hide  ourselves  some- 
where where  people  can't  see  us. 

"  But  Auntie,  you  don't  know  how  perfectly  splendid 
mamma  is.  She  is  the  prettiest  lady  in  the  hotel, 
Louise  says.  She  is  ever  so  much  fatter  than  she 
used  to  be.  And  the  baby  has  grown  so  I  did  not 
know  her,  and  her  curls  are  more  than  half  a  yard 
long.  Louise  and  Mary  have  got  their  hair  cut  short 
like  boys,  but  their  gowns  are  splendid ;  they  say  it 
was  such  a  pity  you  had  any  made  for  me  at  home. 
But  oh,  dear  Auntie,  don't  think  I  shall  not  always 
like  the  gowns  you  made  for  me.  Charlie  isn't  here ; 
he's  at  some  horrid  school  a  great  way  off ;  I  forget 
the  name  of  the  place.  But  we  are  all  going  there 
to  live  for  the  summer.  Mamma  said  we  should  keep 
house  in  an  '  apartment/  and  I  was  perfectly  horrified, 
and  I  said,  '  Mamma,  in  one  room  ? '  and  then  Louise 
and  Mary  laughed  till  I  was  quite  angry ;  but  mamma 
says  that  here  an  '  apartment '  means  a  set  of  a  good 
many  rooms,  quite  enough  to  live  in.  I  don't  believe 
you  can  have  patience  to  read  this  long  letter ;  but  I 
haven't  told  you  half;  no,  not  one  half  of  half.  Good- 
by,  you  darling  aunty.  Alice. 

"P-  S. — I  wish  you  could  just  see  mamma.  It 
isn't  only  me  that  thinks  she  is  so  pretty  ;  papa  thinks 
so  too.  He  just  sits  and  looks,  and  looks  at  her,  till 
mamma  doesn't  quite  like  it,  and  asks  him  to  look  at 
baby  a  little  !  " 

Ellen's  first  letter  was  short.  Her  heart  was  too 
full.     She  said  at  the  end,  — 


3 12  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  both  laugh  and  cry  over  Alice's 
letter.  At  first  I  thought  of  suppressing  it.  But  it 
gives  you  such  a  graphic  picture  of  the  whole  scene 
that  I  shall  let  it  go.  It  is  well  that  I  had  the  excuse 
of  the  surprise  for  my  behavior,  but  I  myself  doubt 
very  much  if  I  should  have  done  any  better,  had  I  been 
prepared  for  their  coming. 

"  God  bless  and  thank  you,  dear  Sally,  for  this  last 
year,  as  I  cannot.  Ellen.  " 

These  events  happened  many  years  ago.  My  sister 
and  I  are  now  old  women.  Her  life  has  been  from 
that  time  to  this,  one  of  the  sunniest  and  most  un- 
clouded I  ever  knew. 

John  Gray  is  a  hale  old  man ;  white-haired  and 
bent,  but  clear-eyed  and  vigorous.  All  the  good  and 
lovable  and  pure  in  his  nature  have  gone  on  steadily 
increasing :  his  love  for  his  wife  is  still  so  full  of 
sentiment  and  romance  that  the  world  remarks  it. 

His  grandchildren  will  read  these  pages,  no  doubt, 
but  they  will  never  dream  that  it  could  have  been 
their  sweet  and  placid  and  beloved  old  grandmother 
who,  through  such  sore  straits  in  her  youth,  kept  her 
husband ! 


ESTHER  WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS. 


Y  uncle,  Joseph  Norton,  lived  in  a  very  old 
house.  It  was  one  of  those  many  mansions 
in  which  that  father  of  all  sleepers,  George 
Washington,  once  slept  for  two  nights.  This,  however, 
was  before  the  house  came  into  the  possession  of  our 
family,  and  we  seldom  mentioned  the  fact. 

The  rooms  were  all  square,  and  high  ;  many  of  the 
walls  were  of  wood  throughout,  panelled  from  the 
floor  to  the  ceiling,  and  with  curious  china  tiles  set 
in  around  the  fire-places.  In  the  room  in  which  I 
always  slept  when  I  visited  there,  these  wooden  walls 
were  of  pale  green;  the  tiles  were  of  blue  and  white, 
and  afforded  me  endless  study  and  perplexity,  being 
painted  with  a  series  of  half-allegorical,  half-historical, 
half-Scriptural  representations  which  might  well  have 
puzzled  an  older  head  than  mine.  The  parlors  were 
white,  with  gold  ornaments ;  the  library  was  of  oak, 
with  mahogany  wainscoting,  and  so  were  the  two  great 
central  halls,  upper  and  lower.  The  balustrade  of 
the  staircase  was  of  apple-tree  wood,  more  beautiful 
than  all  the  rest,  having  fine  red  veins  on  its  dark 
polished  surface.  These  halls  were  lined  with  portraits 
of  dead  Nortons,  men  and  women,  who  looked  as  much 


314  SAKE  HOLM.S  STORIES. 

at  home  as  if  the  grand  old  house  had  always  borne 
their  name.  And  well  they  might,  for  none  of  the 
owners  who  had  gone  before  had  been  of  as  gentle 
blood  as  they ;  and  now  they  would  probably  never 
be  taken  down  from  the  walls,  for  my  uncle  had 
bought  the  house,  and  my  uncle's  son  would  inherit  it; 
and  it  had  never  yet  been  known  that  a  Norton  of 
our  branch  of  Nortons  had  lived  wastefully  or  come  to 
want. 

My  uncle  had  married  very  late  in  life  :  he  was  now 
a  gray-haired  man,  with  little  children  around  his 
knee.  It  was  said  once  in  my  presence,  by  some  one 
who  did  not  know  I  listened,  that  his  heart  had  been 
broken  when  he  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  by  the 
faithlessness  of  a  woman  older  than  himself,  and  that 
he  would  never  have  married  if  he  had  not  seen  that 
another  heart  would  be  broken  if  he  did  not.  Be  that 
as  it  ma}'',  his  bearing  towards  his  wife  was  always  of 
the  most  chivalrous  and  courteous  devotion,  so  cour- 
teous as  perhaps  to  confirm  this  interpretation  of  his 
marriage. 

My  aunt  was  an  uninteresting  woman,  of  whom,  if 
she  were  not  in  sight,  one  never  thought ;  but  she  had 
great  strength  of  affection  and  much  good  sense  in 
affairs.  Her  children  loved  her  ;  her  husband  enjoyed 
the  admirably  ordered  system  of  her  management,  and 
ber  house  was  a  delightful  one  to  visit.  Although  she 
did  not  contribute  to  the  flavor  of  living,  she  never 
hindered  or  thwarted  those  who  could.  There  was 
freedom  in  her  presence,  from  the  very  fact  that  you 
forgot  her,  and  that  she  did  not  in  the  least  object  to 
being  forgotten.  Such  people  are  of  great  use  in  the 
world,  and  make  much  comfort. 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.         315 

At  the  time  when  the  strange  incidents  which  I  am 
about  to  tell  occurred,  my  aunt  had  been  married 
twelve  years,  and  had  four  children ;  three  girls, 
Sarah,  Hilda,  and  Agnes,  and  a  baby  boy,  who  had 
as  yet  no  name.  Sarah  was  called  "  Princess,"  and 
her  real  name  was  never  heard.  She  was  the  oldest, 
and  was  my  uncle's  inseparable  companion.  She  was 
a  child  of  uncommon  thoughtfulness  and  tenderness. 
The  other  two  were  simply  healthy,  happy  little 
creatures,  who  gave  no  promise  of  being  any  more 
individual  than  their  serene,  quiet  mother. 

I  was  spending  the  winter  in  the  family,  and  going 
to  school,  and  between  my  uncle  and  me  there  had 
grown  up  an  intimate  and  confidential  friendship  such 
as  is  rare  between  a  man  of  sixty  and  a  girl  of  fifteen. 
I  understood  him  far  better  than  his  wife  did ;  and  his 
affection  for  me  was  so  great  and  so  caressing  that  he 
used  often  to  say,  laughingly,  "  Nell,  my  girl,  j^ou'll 
never  have  another  lover  like  me  !  " 

We  were  sitting  at  breakfast  one  morning  when 
Princess  came  in,  holding  a  small  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Look,  papa  mia  !  "  she  said  ;  "  see  this  queer  old 
letter  I  found  on  the  cellar  stairs.  It  looks  a  hundred 
years  old." 

My  uncle  glanced  up,  carelessly  at  first,  but  as 
soon  as  he  saw  the  paper  he  stretched  out  his  hand 
for  it,  and  looked  eager.  It  did  indeed  seem  as  if 
it  were  a  hundred  years  old  ;  yellow,  crumpled,  torn. 
It  had  been  folded  in  the  clumsy  old  way  which  was 
customary  before  the  invention  of  envelopes  ;  the  part 
of  the  page  containing  the  address  had  been  torn  out. 
He  read  a  few  words,  and  the  color  mounted  in  his 
iheek. 


3l6  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORTES. 

"  Where  did  you  say  you  found  it^  Princess  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  On  the  cellar  stairs,  papa ;  I  went  down  to  find 
Fido,  and  he  was  playing  with  it." 

"  What  is  it,  Joseph  ? "  said  Aunt  Sarah,  in  tones  a 
shade  more  eager  than  their  wont. 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  dear,"  replied  my  uncle  ;  "  it 
is  very  old,"  and  he  went  on  reading  with  a  more  and 
more  sobered  face. 

"  Robert,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  waiter,  "  do  you 
know  where  this  paper  could  have  come  from  ?  Have 
any  old  papers  been  carried  down  from  the  garret,  to 
light  the  fire  in  the  furnace  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  "  said  Robert,  "  not  that  I  know,  sir." 

"  There  are  whole  barrels  of  old  papers  under  the 
eaves  in  the  garret,"  said  Aunt  Sarah  ;  "  I  have  always 
meant  to  have  them  burned  up ;  I  dare  say  this  came 
out  of  one  of  them,  in  some  way  ;  "  and  she  resumed 
her  habitual  expression  of  nonchalance. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Uncle  Jo,  folding  up  the  paper 
and  putting  it  in  his  pocket.  "  I  will  look,  after  break- 
fast." 

She  glanced  up,  again  surprised,  and  said,  "Why? 
is  it  of  any  importance  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  said  he  hastily,  with  a  shade  of  em- 
barrassment in  his  voice,  "  it  is  only  an  old  letter,  but 
I  thought  there  might  be  more  from  the  same  person." 

"  Who  was  it  ? "  said  Aunt  Sarah,  languidly. 

I  don't  know ;  only  the  first  name  is  signed,"  said 
he  evasively ;  and  the  placid  lady  asked  no  more. 
The  children  were  busy  with  Fido,  and  breakfast 
went  on,  but  I  watched  my  uncle's  face.     I  had  never 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.         317 

Been  it  look  just  as  it  looked  then.  What  could  that 
old  yellow  letter  have  been  ?  My  magnetic  sympathy 
with  my  uncle  told  me  that  he  was  deeply  moved. 

At  dinner-time  my  uncle  was  late,  and  Aunt  Sarah 
said,  with  a  little  less  than  her  usual  dignity,  "  I  never 
did  see  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Norton,  when  he  takes  a 
notion  in  his  head.  He's  been  all  the  morning  rum- 
maging in  clouds  of  dust  in  the  garret,  to  find  more 
of  those  old  letters." 

"  Who  wrote  it.  Auntie  ? "  said  I. 
"  Heaven  knows,"  said  she  ;  "  some  woman  or  other, 
fifty  years  ago.     He  says  her  name  was  Esther." 

"  Did  you  read  it }  "  I  asked  tremblingly.  Already 
I  felt  a  shrinking  sense  of  regard  for  the  unknown 
Esther. 

Aunt  Sarah  looked  at  me  with  almost  amused 
surprise.  "  Read  it,  child .?  no,  indeed !  What  do  I 
care  what  that  poor  soul  wrote  half  a  century  ago. 
But  your  uncle's  half  out  of  his  head  about  her,  and 
he's  had  all  the  servants  up  questioning  them  back 
and  forth  till  they  are  nearly  as  mad  as  he  is.  Cook 
says  she  has  found  several  of  them  on  the  cellar  stairs 
in  the  last  few  weeks  ;  but  she  saw  they  were  so  old 
she  threw  them  into  the  fire,  and  never  once  looked  at 
them  ;  and  when  she  said  that,  your  uncle  just  groaned. 
I  never  did  see  such  a  man  as  he  is  when  he  gets  a 
notion  in  his  head,"  —  she  repeated,  hopelessly. 

My  uncle  came  in  flushed  and  tired.  Nothing  was 
said  about  the  letters  till,  just  as  dinner  was  over,  he 
said  suddenly :  — 

"  Robert,  if  you  find  any  more  of  these  old  papers 
anywhere,  bring  them  to  me  at  once.    And  give  orders 


3l8  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

to  all  the  servants  that  no  piece  of  old  paper  with 
writing  on  it  is  to  be  destroyed  without  my  seeing  it." 
"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Robert,  without  changing  a  muscle 
of  his  face,  but  I  saw  that  he  too  was  of  Mrs.  Norton's 
opinion  as  to  his  master's  oddity  when  he  once  got  a 
notion  in  his  head. 

"  Who  was  the  lady,  papa? "  said  little  Agnes.  "  Did 
you  know  her  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  the  letter  is  as  old  as  papa  is  himself," 
said  he.  "I  think  the  lady  died  when  papa  was  a  little 
baby." 

"  Then  what  makes  you  care  so  much,  papa? "  per- 
sisted Agnes. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  little  one,"  said  he,  kissing  her, 
and  tossing  her  up  in  the  air ;  but  he  looked  at  me. 
In  the  early  twilight  that  afternoon  I  found  my  uncle 
lying  with  closed  eyes  on  the  lounge  in  the  library. 
He  was  very  tired  by  his  long  forenoon's  work  in  the 
garret.  I  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  stroked  his  dear 
old  white  hair. 

"Pet,"  he  said,  without  opening  his  eyes,  "that 
letter  had  the  whole  soul  of  a  woman  in  it." 
"  I  thought  so,  dear,"  said  I,  "  by  your  face." 
After  a  long  interval  he  said  :  "  I  could  not  find  a 
word  more  of  her  writing ;  I  might  have  known  I  should 
not ; "  and  again,  after  a  still  longer  silence,  "  Would 
you  like  to  read  it,  Nell  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure,  Uncle  Jo,"  I  said.  "  It  seems  hardly 

right.  I  think  she  would  not  so  much  mind  your  having 

It,  because  you  are  a  man  ;  but  another  woman !  no, 

uncle  dear,  I  think  the  letter  belongs  to  you." 

"  Oh,   you   true  woman-hearted   darling,"  he   said. 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.         319 

kissing  me  ;  "  but  some  day  I  think  I  shall  want  you 
to  read  it  with  me.  She  would  not  mind  your  reading 
it,  if  she  knew  you  as  I  do." 

Just  then  Aunt  Sarah  came  into  the  room,  and  we 
said  no  more. 

Several  days  passed  by,  and  the  mysterious  letter 
was  forgotten  by  everybody  except  my  uncle  and  me. 

One  bitterly  cold  night  we  were  sitting  around  a 
blazing  coal  fire  in  the  library.  It  was  very  late. 
Aunt  Sarah  was  asleep  in  her  chair ;  my  uncle  was 
reading.  Suddenly  the  door  opened  and  Robert  came 
in,  bringing  a  letter  on  his  little  silver  tray  :  it  was 
past  eleven  o'clock  ;  the  evening  mail  had  been  brought 
in  long  before. 

"Why,  what  is  that,  Robert?"  said  Uncle  Jo, 
starting  up  a  little  alarmed. 

"  One  of  them  old  letters,  sir,"  replied  Robert ; 
"  I  just  got  it  on  the  cellar  stairs,   sir." 

My  uncle  took  the  letter  hastily.  Robert  still  stood 
as  if  he  had  more  to  say ;  and  his  honest,  blank  face 
looked  stupefied  with  perplexity. 

*'  If  you  please,  sir,"  he  began,  "  it's  the  queerest 
thing  ever  I  saw.  That  letter's  been  put  on  them 
stairs,  sir,  within  the  last  five  minutes." 

"  Why,  Robert,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  my  uncle, 
thoroughly  excited. 

"  Oh  dear,"  groaned  Aunt  Sarah,  creeping  out  of 
her  nap  and  chair,  "if  you  are  going  into  another 
catechism  about  those  old  letters,  I  am  going  to  bed ;" 
and  she  left  the  room,  not  staying  long  enough  to 
understand  that  this  was  a  new  mystery,  and  not  a 
vain  rediscussing  of  the  old  one. 


320  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

It  seemed  that  Robert  had  been  down  cellar  to  see 
that  the  furnace  fire  was  in  order  for  the  night.  As 
soon  as  he  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs,  in  coming  up, 
he  remembered  that  he  had  not  turned  the  outside 
damper  properly,  and  went  back  to  do  it. 

"  I  wasn't  gone  three  minutes,  sir,  and  when  I  came 
back  there  lay  the  letter,  right  side  up,  square  in  the 
middle  of  the  stairs  ;  and  I'd  take  my  Bible  oath,  sir, 
as  'twan't  there  when  I  went  down." 

"  Who  was  in  the  hall  when  you  went  down,  Rob- 
ert ?  "  said  my  uncle  sternly. 

"  Nobody,  sir.  Every  servant  in  the  house  had  gone 
to  bed,  except  Jane "  (my  aunt's  maid),  "  and  she 
was  going  up  the  stairs  over  my  head,  sir,  when  I  first 
went  down  into  the  cellar.  I  know  she  was,  sir,  for 
she  called  through  the  stairs  to  me,  and  she  says, 
*  Master  11  hear  you,  Robert.'  You  see,  sir,  Jane  and 
me  didn't  know  as  it  was  so  late,  and  we  was  fright- 
ened when  we  heard  the  clock  strike  half-past  eleven." 

"  That  will  do,  Robert,"  said  Uncle  Jo.  "  You  can 
go,"  and  Robert  disappeared,  relieved  but  puzzled. 
There  seemed  no  possible  explanation  of  the  appear- 
ance of  the  letter  there  and  then,  except  that  hands 
had  placed  it  there  during  the  brief  interval  of  Robert's 
being  in  the  cellar.  There  were  no  human  hands  in 
the  house  which  could  have  done  it.  Was  a  restless 
ghost  wandering  there,  bent  on  betraying  poor  Esther's 
secrets  to  strangers  ?  What  did  it,  what  could  it  mean? 

"  Will  you  read  this  one  with  me,  Nell  ?  "  said  my 
ancle,  turning  it  over  reverently  and  opening  it. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  but  I  will  watch  you  read  it  ;  "  and 
I  sat  down  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.  ^21 

The  letter  was  very  short ;  he  read  it  twice  without 
speaking  ;  and  then  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice  :  "  This 
is  an  earlier  letter  than  the  other,  I  think.  This  is  a 
joyous  one  ;  poor  Esther  !  I  believe  I  know  her  whole 
story.  But  the  mystery  is  inexplicable  !  I  would  take 
down  these  walls  if  I  thought  I  could  get  at  the  secret." 

Long  past  midnight  we  sat  and  talked  it  all  over ; 
and  racked  our  brains  in  vain  to  invent  any  theory  to 
account  for  the  appearance  of  the  letters  on  that  cellar 
stairway.  My  uncle's  tender  interest  in  the  poor  dead 
Esther  was  fast  being  overshadowed  by  the  perplexing 
mystery. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Mary  the  cook  found  another 
of  the  letters  when  she  first  went  down-stairs  in  the 
morning,  and  Robert  placed  it  by  my  uncle's  plate, 
with  the  rest  of  his  mail.  It  was  the  strangest  one  of 
all,  for  there  was  not  a  word  of  writing  in  it  that  could 
be  read.  It  was  a  foreign  letter  ;  some  lines  of  the 
faded  old  postmarks  were  still  visible  on  the  back. 
The  first  page  looked  as  if  it  had  been  written  over 
with  some  sort  of  sympathetic  ink  ;  but  not  a  word 
could  be  deciphered.  Folded  in  a  small  piece  of  the 
thinnest  of  paper  was  a  mouldy  and  crumbling  flower, 
of  a  dull-brown  color ;  on  the  paper  was  written,  — 
"  Pomegranate  blossom,  from  Jafl"a,"  and  a  few  lines 
of  poetry,  of  which  we  could  make  out  only  here  and 
there  a  word. 

Even  Aunt  Sarah  was  thoroughly  aroused  and  ex- 
cited now.  Robert  had  been  in  the  cellar  very  late 
on  the  previous  night,  and  was  sure  that  at  that  time 
no  papers  were  on  the  stairs. 

"  I  never  go  down   them  stairs,  sir,"  said  Robert, 

21 


322  SAKE  HOLM'S  STuRTES. 

"without  looking —  and  listening  too/'  he  added  un- 
der his  breath,  with  a  furtive  look  back  at  the  cook, 
who  was  standing  in  the  second  doorway  of  the  but- 
ler's pantry.  The  truth  was,  Robert  had  been  afraid 
of  the  cellar  ever  since  the  finding  of  the  second  let- 
ter: and  all  the  servants  shared  his  uneasiness. 

Between  eleven  at  night  and  seven  the  next  morning, 
this  mute  ghostly  waif  from  Palestine,  with  the  half- 
century  old  dust  of  a  pomegranate  flower  in  its  keep- 
ing, had  come  up  that  dark  stairway.  It  appeared 
now  that  the  letters  were  always  found  on  the  fourth 
stair  from  the  top.  This  fact  had  not  before  been 
elicited,  but  there  seemed  little  doubt  about  it.  Even 
little  Princess  said,  — 

"  Yes,  papa,  I  am  sure  that  the  one  I  found  was  on 
that  stair ;  for  I  now  remember  Fido  came  up  with 
only  just  one  or  two  bounds  to  the  top,  as  soon  as  he 
saw  me." 

We  were  very  sober.  The  little  children  chattered 
on  ;  it  meant  nothing  to  them,  this  breath  from  such  a 
far  past.  But  to  hearts  old  enough  to  comprehend, 
there  was  something  infinitely  sad  and  suggestive  in 
it.  I  already  felt,  though  I  had  not  read  one  word  of 
her  writing,  that  I  loved  the  woman  called  Esther  ; 
as  for  my  uncle,  his  very  face  was  becoming  changed 
by  the  thought  of  her,  and  the  mystery  about  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  letters.  He  began  to  be  annoyed 
also ;  for  the  servants  were  growing  suspicious,  and 
ynwilling  to  go  into  the  cellar.  Mary  the  cook  de- 
clared that  on  the  morning  when  she  found  this  last 
(etter,  something  white  brushed  by  her  at  the  foot  of 
:he  stairs  ;  and  Robert  said  that  he  had  for  a  long  time 
heard  strange  sounds  from  that  staircase  late  at  night. 


:esther  wynn's  love-letters.      323 

Just  after  this,  my  aunt  went  away  for  a  visit ;  and 
Beveral  days  passed  without  any  further  discoveries  on 
the  stairs.  My  uncle  and  I  spent  long  hours  in  talk- 
ing over  the  mystery,  and  he  urged  me  to  read,  or  to 
let  him  read  to  me,  the  two  letters  he  had. 

"  Pet,"  he  said,  "  I  will  tell  you  something.  One 
reason  they  move  me  so  is^  that  they  are  strangely  like 
words  written  by  a  woman  whom  I  knew  thirty  years 
ago.  I  did  not  believe  two  such  women  had  been  on 
the  earth." 

I  kissed  his  hand  when  he  said  this  ;  yet  a  strange 
unwillingness  to  read  Esther's  letters  withheld  me.  I 
felt  that  he  had  right,  and  I  had  not. 

But  the  end  of  the  mystery  was  near.  It  was  re- 
vealed, as  it  ought  to  have  been,  to  my  uncle  himself. 

One  night  I  was  wakened  out  of  my  first  sleep  by 
a  very  cautious  tap  at  my  door,  and  my  uncle's  voice, 
saying,  — 

"  Nell  —  Nell,  are  you  awake  ? " 

I  sprang  to  the  door  instantly. 

"  O  uncle,  are  you  ill  ? "  (My  aunt  had  not  yei  re- 
turned.) 

"No,  pet.  But  I  want  you  down-stairs.  Dress 
yourself  and  come  down  into  the  library." 

My  hands  trembled  with  excitement  as  I  dressed. 
Yet  I  was  not  afraid  :  I  knew  it  was  in  some  way  con- 
nected with  "  Esther,"  though  my  uncle  had  not  men- 
tioned her  name. 

I  found  him  sitting  before  the  library  table,  which 
was  literally  covered  with  old  letters,  such  as  we  had 
before  seen. 

"  O  uncle !  "  I  gasped  as  soon  as  I  saw  them. 


324  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  Yes,  dear !  I  have  got  them  all.  There  was  no 
ghost ! " 

Then  he  told  me  in  few  words  what  had  happened. 
It  seemed  that  he  had  gone  down  himself  into  the  cel- 
lar, partly  to  satisfy  himself  that  all  was  right  with  the 
furnace,  partly  with  a  vague  hope  of  finding  another  of 
the  letters.  He  had  found  nothing,  had  examined  the 
furnace,  locked  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  cellar 
stairs,  and  gone  up  to  his  bed-room.  While  he  was 
undressing,  a  strange  impulse  seized  him  to  go  back 
once  more,  and  see  whether  it  might  not  happen  to  him 
as  it  had  to  Robert^  to  find  a  letter  on  returning  after 
a  few  moments'  interval. 

He  threw  on  his  wrapper,  took  a  candle,  and  went 
down.  The  first  thing  he  saw,  on  opening  the  door, 
which  he  had  himself  locked  only  five  minutes  before, 
was  a  letter  lying  on  the  same  fourth  stair ! 

"  I  confess,  Nell,"  said  he,  "  for  a  minute  I  felt  as 
frightened  as  black  Bob.  But  I  sat  down  on  the  up- 
per step,  and  resolved  not  to  go  away  till  I  had  dis- 
covered how  that  letter  came  there,  if  I  stayed  till  day- 
light ! " 

Nearly  an  hour  passed,  he  said  ;  the  cold  wind  from 
the  cellar  blew  up  and  swayed  the  candle-flame  to  and 
fro.  All  sorts  of  strange  sounds  seemed  to  grow 
louder  and  louder,  and  still  he  sat,  gazing  helplessly 
in  a  sort  of  despair  at  that  motionless  letter,  which  he 
had  not  lifted  from  the  stair.  At  last,  purely  by  acci- 
vlent,  he  looked  up  to  the  staircase  overhead  —  the 
front  stairs,  down  which  he  had  just  come  from  his 
room.  He  jumped  to  his  feet!  There,  up  among  the 
dark  cobwebbed  shadows,  he  thought  he  saw  some- 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LEIJERS.         325 

thing  white.  He  held  up  the  candle.  It  was,  yes,  it 
was  a  tiny  corner  of  white  paper  wedged  into  a  crack  ; 
by  standing  on  the  beam  at  the  side  he  could  just 
reach  it.  He  touched  it,  —  pulled  it  ;  —  it  came  out 
slowly,  —  another  of  Esther's  letters.  They  were  hid 
in  the  upper  staircase  !  The  boards  had  been  worn  and 
jarred  a  little  away  from  each  other,  and  the  letters 
were  gradually  shaken  through  the  opening;  some 
heavier  or  quicker  step  than  usual  giving  always  the 
final  impetus  to  a  letter  which  had  been  for  days  slowly 
working  down  towards  the  fated  outlet. 

Stealthily  as  any  burglar  he  had  crept  about  his  own 
house,  had  taken  up  the  whole  of  the  front  staircase 
carpet,  and  had  with  trouble  pried  off  one  board  of 
the  stair  in  which  the  letters  were  hid.  There  had 
been  a  spring,  he  found,  but  it  was  rusted  and  would 
not  yield.  He  had  carefully  replaced  the  carpet,  car- 
ried the  letters  into  the  library,  and  come  for  me  ;  it 
was  now  half-past  one  o'clock  at  night. 

Dear,  blessed  Uncle  Jo  !  I  am  an  old  woman  now. 
Good  men  and  strong  men  have  given  me  love,  and 
have  shown  me  of  their  love  for  others ;  but  never  did 
I  feel  myself  so  in  the  living  presence  of  incarnate 
love  as  I  did  that  night,  sitting  with  my  white-haired 
uncle,  face  to  face  with  the  faded  records  of  the  love 
of  Esther  Wynn. 

It  was  only  from  one  note  that  we  discovered  her 
last  name.  This  was  written  in  the  early  days  of  her 
ijcquaintance  with  her  lover,  and  while  she  was  appar- 
ently little  more  than  a  child.  It  was  evident  that  at 
first  the  relation  was  more  like  one  of  pupil  and  mas- 
ter.    For  some  time  the  letters  all  commenced  scru 


326  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

pulously  "  my  dear  friend,"  or  "  my  most  beloved 
friend."  It  was  not  until  years  had  passed  that  the 
master  became  the  lo\-er ;  we  fancied,  Uncle  Jo  and  I, 
as  we  went  reverently  over  the  beautiful  pages,  that 
Esther  had  grown  and  developed  more  and  more,  until 
she  was  the  teacher,  the  helper,  the  inspirer.  We  felt 
sure,  though  we  could  not  tell  how,  that  she  was  the 
stronger  of  the  two ;  that  she  moved  and  lived  habit- 
ually on  a  higher  plane ;  that  she  yearned  often  to 
lift  the  man  she  loved  to  the  freer  heights  on  which 
her  soul  led  its  glorified  existence. 

It  was  strange  how  little  we  gathered  which  could 
give  a  clew  to  her  actual  history  or  to  his.  The  letters 
almost  never  gave  the  name  of  the  place,  only  the  day 
and  year,  many  of  them  only  the  day.  There  was 
dearth  of  allusions  to  persons  ;  it  was  as  if  these  two 
had  lived  in  a  separate  world  of  their  own.  When 
persons  were  mentioned  at  all,  it  was  only  by  initials. 
It  was  plain  that  some  cruel,  inexorable  bar  separated 
her  from  the  man  she  loved  \  a  bar  never  spoken  of — 
whose  nature  we  could  only  guess,  —  but  one  which 
her  strong  and  pure  nature  felt  itself  free  to  triumph 
over  in  spirit,  however  submissive  the  external  life 
might  seem. 

Their  relation  had  lasted  for  many  years  ;  so  many, 
that  that  fact  alone  seemed  a  holy  seal  and  testi- 
mony to  the  purity  and  immortality  of  the  bond  which 
united  them.  Esther  must  have  been  a  middle-aged 
woman  when,  as  the  saddened  letters  revealed,  her 
health  failed  and  she  was  ordered  by  the  physicians  to 
go  to  Europe.  The  first  letter  which  my  uncle  had 
read,  the  one  which  Princess  found,  was  the  letter  in 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.         32/ 

ivhich  she  bade  farewell  to  her  lover.  There  was  no 
record  after  that  \  only  two  letters  which  had  come 
from  abroad ,  one  was  the  one  that  I  have  mentioned, 
which  contained  the  pomegranate  blossom  from  Jaffa, 
and  a  little  poem  which,  after  long  hours  of  labor, 
Uncle  Jo  and  I  succeeded  in  deciphering.  The  other 
had  two  flowers  in  it  —  an  Edelweiss  which  looked  as 
white  and  pure  and  immortal  as  if  it  had  come  from 
Alpine  snows  only  the  day  before  ;  and  a  little  crimson 
flower  of  the  amaranth  species,  which  was  wrapped 
by  itself,  and  marked  "  From  Bethlehem  of  Judea." 
The  only  other  words  in  this  letter  were,  ^'  I  am  better, 
darling,  but  I  cannot  write  yet." 

It  was  evident  that  there  had  been  the  deepest  in- 
tellectual sympathy  between  them.  Closely  and  fer- 
vently and  passionately  as  their  hearts  must  have  loved, 
the  letters  were  never,  from  first  to  last,  simply  lovers' 
letters.  Keen  interchange  of  comment  and  analysis, 
full  revelation  of  strongly  marked  individual  life,  con- 
stant mutual  stimulus  to  mental  growth  there  must 
have  been  between  these  two.  We  were  inclined  to 
think,  from  the  exquisitely  phrased  sentences  and  rare 
fancies  in  the  letters,  and  from  the  graceful  movement 
of  some  of  the  little  poems,  that  Esther  must  have  had 
ambition  as  a  writer.  Then,  again,  she  seemed  so 
wholly,  simply,  passionately,  a  woman,  to  love  and  be 
loved,  that  all  thought  of  anything  else  in  her  nature 
or  her  life  seemed  incongruous. 

"  Oh,"  groaned  Uncle  Jo,  after  reading  one  of  the 
most  glowing  letters,  "  oh,  was  there  really  ever  in  any 
»ther  man's  arms  but  mine  a  woman  who  could  say 
luch  things  as  these  between  kisses  ?     O  Nell,  Nell, 


328  SAKE  HOLM  S  STORIES. 

thank   God    that   you    haven't   the   dower    of  such  a 
double  fire  in  your  veins  as  Esther  had  !  " 

All  night  we  sat  reading,  and  reading,  and  reading. 
When  the  great  clock  in  the  hall  struck  six,  we  started 
like  guilty  persons. 

"  Oh,  my  childie,"  said  Uncle  Jo,  "  how  wrong  this 
has  been  in  me !  Poor  little  pale  face,  go  to  bed  now, 
and  remember,  I  forbid  you  to  go  to  school  to-day  ; 
and  I  forbid  your  getting  up  until  noon.  I  promise 
you  I  will  not  look  at  another  letter.  I  will  lock  them 
all  up  till  to-morrow  evening,  and  then  we  will  finish 
them." 

I  obeyed  him  silently.  I  was  too  exhausted  to 
speak  ;  but  I  was  also  too  excited  to  sleep.  Until 
noon  I  lay  wide  awake  on  the  bed,  in  my  darkened 
room,  living  over  Esther  Wynn's  life,  marvelling  at  the 
inexplicable  revelation  of  it  which  had  been  put  into 
our  hands,  and  wondering,  until  the  uncertainty 
seemed  almost  anguish,  what  was  that  end  which  we 
could  never  know.  Did  she  die  in  the  Holy  Land  ? 
or  did  she  come  home  well  and  strong  ?  and  did  her 
lover  die  some  day,  leaving  his  secret  treasure  of 
letters  behind  him,  and  poor  stricken  Esther  to  go 
to  her  grave  in  fear  lest  unfriendly  hands  might  have 
gained  possession  of  her  heart's  records  ?  He  was  a 
married  man  we  felt  sure.  Had  the  wife  whom  he  did  not 
love  paced  up  and  down  and  up  and  down  for  years 
over  these  dumb  witnesses  to  that  of  which  she  had 
never  dreamed  ?  The  man  himself,  when  he  came  to 
die,  did  he  writhe,  thinking  of  those  silent,  eloquent, 
precious  letters  which  he  must  leave  to  time  and 
chance  to  destroy  or  protect?     Did  men  carry  him, 


ES-i'HER    WYNN'S  :.OVE-LETTERS.         329 

dead,  down  the  very  stairs  on  which  he  had  so  often 
knelt  unseen  and  wafted  kisses  towards  the  hidden 
Esther  ? 

All  these  conjectures  and  questions,  and  thousands 
more,  hurried  in  wild  confusion  through  my  brain. 
In  vain  I  closed  my  eyes,  in  vain  I  pressed  my  hands 
on  my  eyelids ;  countless  faces,  dark,  light,  beautiful, 
plain,  happy,  sad,  threatening,  imploring,  seemed  dan- 
cing in  the  air  around  my  bed,  and  saying,  "  Esther, 
Esther  ! " 

We  knew  she  was  fair ;  for  there  was  in  one  of  the 
letters  a  tiny  curl  of  pale  brown  hair ;  but  we  believed 
from  many  expressions  of  hers  that  she  had  no  beauty. 
Oh,  if  I  could  but  have  known  how  she  looked  ! 

At  last  I  fell  asleep,  and  slept  heavily  until  after 
dark.  This  refreshed  my  overwrought  nerves,  and 
when  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  I  joined  my  uncle 
in  the  library,  I  was  calmer  than  he. 

We  said  very  few  words.  I  sat  on  his  knee,  with 
one  arm  around  his  neck,  and  hand  in  hand  we 
reverently  lifted  the  frail,  trembling  sheets. 

We  learned  nothing  new  \  in  fact,  almost  any  one 
of  the  letters  was  a  rounded  revelation  of  Esther's 
nature,  and  of  the  great  love  she  bore  —  and  there 
was  little  more  to  learn.  There  were  more  than  a 
hundred  of  the  letters,  and  they  embraced  a  period 
of  fifteen  years.  We  arranged  them  in  piles,  each 
year  by  itself;  for  some  years  there  were  only  two  or 
tliree  ;  we  wondered  whether  during  those  years  they 
had  lived  near  each  other,  and  so  had  not  written, 
or  whether  the  letters  had  been  destroyed.  When  the 
.ast  letter  was  laid  where  it  belonged,  we  looked  at 
each  other  in  silence,  and  we  both  sighed. 


330  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Uncle  Jo  spoke  first 

"  Childie,  what  shall  we  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  uncle,"  I  said.  "  I  should  i'eel  very 
guilty  if  we  did  not  make  sure  that  no  one  else  read 
them.  I  should  feel  very  guilty  myself,  except  that  I 
have  read  them  with  you.  They  seem  to  me  to  belong 
to  you,  somehow." 

Uncle  Jo  kissed  me,  and  we  were  silent  again.  Then 
he  said,  "  There  is  but  one  way  to  make  sure  that  no 
human  being  will  ever  read  them  —  that  is,  to  burn 
them  ;  but  it  is  as  hard  for  me  to  do  it  as  if  they  had 
been  written  to  me." 

"  Could  you  not  put  them  back  in  the  stair,  and  nail 
it  up  firmly  ? "  said  I. 

It  was  a  stormy  night.  The  wind  was  blowing  hard, 
and  sleet  and  snow  driving  against  the  windows.  At 
this  instant  a  terrible  gust  rattled  the  icy  branches  of 
the  syringa-bushes  against  the  window,  with  a  noise 
like  the  click  of  musketry,  and  above  the  howling  of 
the  wind  there  came  a  strange  sound  which  sounded 
like  a  voice  crying,  '^  Burn,  burn  1  " 

Uncle  Jo  and  I  both  heard  it,  and  both  sprang  to 
our  feet,  white  with  a  nervous  terror.  In  a  second  he 
recovered  himself,  and  said,  laughing,  "  Pet  we  are 
both  a  good  deal  shaken  by  this  business.  But  I  do 
think  it  will  be  safer  to  burn  the  letters.  Poor,  poor 
Esther.     I  hope  she  is  safe  with  her  lover  now." 

"Oh,  do  you  doubt  it.?"  said  I ;  "  I  do  not." 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  I  do  not,  either.     Thank  God  !  '' 

"  Uncle  Jo,"  said  I,  "  do  you  think  Esther  would 
mind  if  I  copied  a  few  of  these  letters,  and  two  or 
ihree  of  the  poems  ?     I  so  want  to  have  them  that  it 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.  33 1 

Beems  to  me  I  cannot  give  them  up  ;  I  love  her  so,  I 
think  she  would  be  willing." 

The  storm  suddenly  died  away,  and  the  peaceful 
silence  around  us  was  almost  as  startling  as  the  fierce 
gust  had  been  before.  I  took  it  as  an  omen  that 
Esther  did  not  refuse  my  wish,  and  I  selected  the 
four  letters  which  I  most  desired  to  keep.  I  took 
also  the  pomegranate  blossom,  and  the  Edelweiss, 
and  the  crimson  Amaranth  from  Bethlehem. 

"  I  think  Esther  would  rather  that  these  should  not 
be  burned,"  I  said. 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  so  too,"  replied  Uncle  Jo. 

Then  we  laid  the  rest  upon  the  fire.  The  generous 
hickory  logs  seemed  to  open  their  arms  to  them.  In 
a  few  seconds  great  panting  streams  of  fire  leaped  up 
and  rushed  out  of  our  sight,  bearing  with  them  all 
that  was  perishable  of  Esther  Wynn's  letters.  Just 
as  the  crackling  shadowy  shapes  were  falling  apart 
and  turning  black,  my  uncle  sprang  to  an  Indian 
cabinet  which  stood  near,  and  seizing  a  little  box  of 
incense-powder  which  had  been  brought  from  China 
by  his  brother,  he  shook  a  few  grains  of  it  into  the 
fire.  A  pale,  fragrant  film  rose  slowly  in  coiling 
wreaths  and  clouds  and  hid  the  last  moments  of  the 
burnins:  of  the  letters.  When  the  incense  smoke 
cleared  away,  nothing  could  be  seen  on  the  hearth 
but  the  bright  hickory  coals  in  their  bed  of  white 
ashes. 

"  I  shall  make  every  effort,"  said  Uncle  Jo,  "  to 
find  out  who  lived  in  this  house  during  those  years. 
[  presume  I  can,  by  old  records  somewhere." 

"  Oh,  uncle,"  I  said,  "  don't.  I  think  they  would 
'ather  we  did  not  know  any  more." 


332  SAXE    HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  You  sweet  woman  child  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You 
are  right.  Your  instinct  is  truer  than  mine.  I  am 
only  a  man,  after  all !  I  will  never  try  to  learn  who 
it  was  that  Esther  loved." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  he  added,  "that  this  happened 
when  your  Aunt  Sarah  was  away.  It  would  have 
been  a  great  weariness  and  annoyance  to  her  to  have 
read  these  letters." 

Dear,  courteous  Uncle  Jo  !  I  respected  his  chival- 
rous little  artifice  of  speech,  and  tried  to  look  as  if  I 
believed  he  would  have  carried  the  letters  to  his 
wife  if  she  had  been  there. 

"And  I  think,  dear,"  he  hesitatingly  proceeded, 
"  we  would  better  not  speak  of  this.  It  will  be  one 
sacred  little  secret  that  you  and  your  old  uncle  will 
keep.  As  no  more  letters  will  be  found  on  the  stairs, 
the  whole  thing  will  be  soon  forgotten." 

"  Oh  yes,  uncle,"  replied  I  ;  "of  course  it  would 
be  terrible  to  tell.  It  isn't  our  secret,  you  know; 
it  is  dear  Esther  Wynn's." 

I  do  not  know  why  it  was  that  I  locked  up  those 
four  letters  of  Esther  Wynn's  and  did  not  look  at 
them  for  many  months.  I  felt  very  guilty  in  keeping 
them  j  but  a  power  I  could  not  resist  seemed  to 
paralyze  my  very  hand  when  I  thought  of  opening 
the  box  in  which  they  were.  At  last,  long  after  I  had 
left  Uncle  Jo's  house,  I  took  them  out  one  day,  and 
in  the  quiet  and  warmth  of  a  summer  noon  I  copied 
them  slowly,  carefully,  word  for  word.  Then  I  hid 
the  originals  in  my  bosom,  and  walked  alone,  without 
telling  any  one  whither  I  was  going,  to  a  wild  spot  I 
knew   several    miles    away,    where    a  lirtle    mountain 


ESTHER    WYNNES  LOVE-LET TEKS.         333 

Btream  came  foaming  and  dashing  down  through  a  nar- 
row gorge  to  empty  itself  into  our  broad  and  placid 
river.     I  sat  down  on   a   mossy  granite  boulder,  and 
slowly  tore  the  letters  into  minutest  fragments.     One 
by  one  I  tossed  the  white  and  tiny  shreds  into    the 
swift  water,  and  watched  them  as  far  as  I  could  see 
them.     The  brook  lifted  them  and  tossed  them  over 
and  over,  lodged  them  in  mossy  crevices,  or  on  tree 
roots,  then  swept  them  all  up  and  whirled  them  away 
in  dark  depths  of  the  current  from  which  they  would 
never  more  come  to  the  surface.    It  was  a  place  which 
Esther  would  have  loved,   and  I  wondered,    as   I  sat 
there  hour  after  hour,  whether  it  were  really  improba- 
ble, that  she  knew  just  then  what  I  was  doing  for  her. 
I  wondered,  also,  as  I  often   before  had  wondered,  if 
it  might  not  have  been  by  Esther's  will  that  the  sacred 
hoard  of  letters,  which  had  lain  undiscovered  for  so 
many  years,  should  fall  at  last  into  the  hands  of  my 
tender  and  chivalrous  Uncle  Jo.     It  was  certainly  a 
strange  thing  that  on  the  stormy  night  which  I  have 
described,  when  we  were  discussing  what  should  be 
done  with  the  letters,   both  Uncle  Jo  and  I  at   the 
same  instant  should  have  fancied  we  heard  the  words 
"  Burn,  burn  !  " 

The  following  letter  is  the  earliest  one  which  I 
copied.  It  is  the  one  which  Robert  found  so  late  at 
night  and  brought  to  us  in  the  library :  — 

"Friday  Evening. 
"  Sweetest  :  —  It  is  very  light  in  my  room  to-night. 
The   full   moon    and   the  thought  of  you  !     I  see   to 
•vrite,  but  you   would   forbid  me  —  you    who   would 


334  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

see  only  the  moonlight,  and  not  the  other.  Oh,  my 
darling !  my  darling  ! 

"  I  have  been  all  day  in  fields  and  on  edges  of 
woods.  I  have  never  seen  just  such  a  day  :  a  June 
sun,  and  a  September  wind ;  clover  and  butter-cups  un- 
der foot,  and  a  sparkling  October  sky  overhead.  I  think 
the  earth  enjoyed  it  as  a  sort  of  masquerading  frolic. 
The  breeze  was  so  strong  that  it  took  the  butterflies 
half  off  their  air-legs,  and  they  fairly  reeled  about  in 
the  sun.  As  for  me,  I  sat  here  and  there,  on  hillocks 
and  stones,  among  ferns,  and  white  cornels,  and  honey- 
bees, and  bobolinks.  I  was  the  only  still  thing  in  the 
fields.  I  waited  so  long  in  each  spot,  that  it  was  like 
being  transplanted  when  I  moved  myself  to  the  north 
or  the  south.  And  I  discovered  a  few  things  in  each 
country  in  which  I  lived.  For  one  thing,  I  observed 
that  the  little  busy  bee  is  not  busy  all  the  while  ;  that 
he  does  a  great  amount  of  aimless,  idle  snuffing  and 
tasting  of  all  sorts  of  things  besides  flowers  ;  especially 
he  indulges  in  a  running  accompaniment  of  gymnastics 
among  the  grass-stalks,  which  cannot  possibly  have 
anything  to  do  with  honey.  I  watched  one  fellow  to- 
day through  a  series  of  positive  trapeze  movements 
from  top  to  bottom  and  bottom  to  top  of  a  grass- 
tangle.  When  he  got  through  he  shook  himself,  and 
smoothed  off  his  legs  exactly  as  the  circus-men  do. 
Then  he  took  a  long  pull  at  a  clover  well. 

"  Ah,  the  clover  !  Dearest !  you  should  have  seen 
how  it  swung  to-day.  The  stupidest  person  in  the 
world  could  not  have  helped  thinking  that  it  kept 
time  to  invisible  band-playing,  and  was  trying  to  catch 
hold  of  the  buttercups.     I  lay  down  at  full  length  and 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS. 


335 


looked  off  through  the  stems,  and  then  I  saw  for  the 
first  time  how  close  they  were,  and  that  they  constantly 
swayed  and  touched,  and  sometimes  locked  fast  to- 
gether for  a  second.  Stately  as  a  minuet  it  looked, 
but  joyous  and  loving  as  the  wildest  waltz  I  ever 
danced  in  your  arms,  my  darling.  Oh,  how  dare  we 
presume  to  be  so  sure  that  the  flowers  are  not  glad  as 
we  are  glad  !  On  such  a  day  as  to-day  I  never  doubt  it ; 
and  I  picked  one  as  reverently  and  hesitatingly  as  I 
would  ask  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies  home  to  tea  if  I 
met  her  in  a  wood. 

"  Laughing,  are  you,  darling  ?  Yes,  I  know  it.  Poor 
soul !  You  cannot  help  being  a  man,  I  suppose.  Nor 
would  I  have  3^ou  help  it,  my  great,  strong,  glorious 
one!  How  I  adore  the  things  which  you  do,  which 
I  could  not  do.  Oh,  my  sweet  master !  Never  fear 
that  I  do  you  less  reverence  than  I  should.  All  the 
same,  I  lie  back  on  my  ferny  hillock_,  and  look  you  in 
the  eye,  and  ask  you  what  you  think  would  become  of 
you  if  you  had  no  little  one  of  my  kind  to  bring  you 
honey  !  And  when  I  say  this  —  you  —  ah,  my  darling, 
now  there  are  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  the  moonlight 
grows  dim.  I  cannot  bear  the  thinking  what  you 
would  do  when  I  said  those  words  !  Good-night !  Per- 
haps in  my  sleep  I  will  say  them  again,  and  you  will 
be  there  to  answer.  In  the  morning  I  shall  write  out 
for  you  to-day's  clover  song.  Your  Own." 

The  clover  song  was  not  in  the  letter.  We  found 
it  afterward  on  a  small  piece  of  paper,  so  worn  and 
broken  in  the  folds  that  we  knew  it  must  have  been 
carried  for  months  in  a  pocket-book. 


336  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES, 

A   SONG   OF  CLOVER. 

I  wonder  what  the  Clover  thinks  ?  — 
Intimate  friend  of  Bob-o-links, 
Lover  of  Daisies  slim  and  white, 
Waltzer  with  Butter-cups  at  night ; 
Keeper  of  Inn  for  travelling  Bees, 
Serving  to  them  wine  dregs  and  lees, 
Left  by  the  Royal  Humming-birds, 
Who  sip  and  pay  with  fine-spun  words  ; 
Fellow  with  all  the  lowliest, 
Peer  of  the  gayest  and  the  best ; 
Comrade  of  winds,  beloved  of  sun, 
Kissed  by  the  Dew-drops,  one  by  one ; 
Prophet  of  Good  Luck  mystery 
By  sign  of  four  which  few  may  see  j 
Symbol  of  Nature's  magic  zone. 
One  out  of  three,  and  three  in  one  ; 
Emblem  of  comfort  in  the  speech 
Which  poor  men's  babies  early  reach ; 
Sweet  by  the  roadsides,  sweet  by  sills, 
Sweet  in  the  meadows,  sweet  on  hills. 
Sweet  in  its  white,  sweet  in  its  red, 
Oh,  half  its  sweet  cannot  be  said  ; 
Sweet  in  its  every  living  breath, 
Sweetest,  perhaps,  at  last,  in  death  ! 
Oh,  who  knows  what  the  Clover  thinks  ? 
No  one  !  unless  the  Bob-o-links  ! 

ITie  lines  which  were  written  on  the  paper  inclos- 
ing the  pomegranate  flower  from  Jaffa  we  deciphered 
with  great  trouble.  The  last  verse  we  were  not  quite 
sure  about,  for  there  had  been  erasures.  But  I  think 
we  were  right  finally. 

Pomegranate  blossom  !     Heart  of  fire  I 

I  dare  to  be  thy  death, 
To  slay  thee  while  the  summer  son 

Is  quickening  thy  breath  ; 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.         337 

To  rob  the  autumn  of  thy  wine  ;  — 
Next  year  of  all  ripe  seeds  of  thine, 

That  thou  mayest  bear  one  kiss  of  mine 
To  my  dear  love  before  my  death. 

For,  Heart  of  fire,  I  too  am  robbed 

Like  thee  !  Like  thee,  I  die, 
While  yet  my  summer  sun  of  love 

Is  near,  and  warm,  and  high  ; 
The  autumn  will  run  red  with  wine  ; 
The  autumn  fruits  will  swing  and  shine ; 
But  in  that  little  grave  of  mine 

I  shall  not  see  them  where  I  lie. 

Pomegranate  blossom  !  Heart  of  fire  ! 

This  kiss,  so  slow,  so  sweet, 
Thou  bearest  hence,  can  never  lose 

Even  in  death  its  heat. 
Redder  than  autumns  can  run  with  wine, 
Warmer  than  summer  suns  can  shine, 
Forever  that  dear  love  of  mine 

Shall  find  thy  sacred  hidden  sweet ! 


The  next  letter  which  I  copied  was  one  written  five 
years  after  the  first ;  it  is  not  so  much  a  letter  as  an 
allegory,  and  so  beautiful,  so  weird,  that  we  wondered 
Esther  did  not  set  it  to  tune  as  a  poem. 

"  Sunday  Morning. 
"  My  Darling  :  —  Even  this  blazing  September  sun 
looks  dull  to  me  this  morning.  I  have  come  from 
such  a  riotous  dream.  All  last  night  I  walked  in  a 
realm  of  such  golden  splendor,  that  I  think  even  in 
our  fullest  noon  I  shall  only  see  enough  light  to  grope 
by  for  days  and  days. 
22 


338  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you  my  dream.  I  think 
I  must  put  it  in  shape  of  a  story  of  two  people  ;  but 
you  will  know,  darling,  that  in  my  dream  it  was  you 
and  I.  And  I  honestly  did  dream  it,  love,  every  word 
just  as  I  shall  write  it  for  you  ;  only  there  are  no 
words  which  so  glow  and  light  and  blaze  as  did  the 
chambers  through  which  we  walked.  I  had  been 
reading  about  the  wonderful  gold  mines  of  which 
every  one  is  talking  now,  and  this  led  to  my  dream. 

"  You  can  laugh  if  you  like,  sweet  master  mine,  but 
I  think  it  is  all  true,  and  I  call  it 

"  THE  MINE  OF    GOLD. 

"  There  is  but  one  true  mine  of  gold  ;  and  of  it  no 
man  knows,  and  no  woman,  save  those  who  go  into  it. 
Neither  can  they  who  go  tell  whether  they  sink  into 
the  earth's  heart  or  are  caught  up  into  the  chambers 
of  the  air,  or  led  to  the  outer  pavilions  of  the  sea. 
Suddenly  they  perceive  that  all  around,  above,  below 
them  is  gold :  rocks  of  gold  higher  than  they  can  see  ; 
caves  whose  depths  are  bright  with  gold  ;  lakes  of 
gold  which  is  molten  and  leaps  like  fire,  but  in  which 
flowers  can  be  dipped  and  not  wither;  sands  of  gold, 
soft  and  pleasant  to  touch  ;  innumerable  shapes  of 
all  things  beautiful,  which  wave  and  change,  but  only 
from  gold  to  gold  ;  air  which  shines  and  shimmers  like 
refiner's  gold ;  warmth  which  is  like  the  glow  of  the 
red  gold  of  Ophir  ;  and  everywhere  golden  silence  ! 

"  Hand  in  hand  walk  the  two  to  whom  it  is  given  to 
enter  here  :  of  the  gold,  they  may  carry  away  only  so 
much  as  can  be  hid  in  their  bosoms ;  grains  which  are 
apilled,  or  are  left  on  their  garments,  turn  to  ashes  ; 


ESTHER    WYNN"S   LOVE-LETTERS.         339 

only  to  each  other  may  they  speak  of  these  mysteries  ; 
but  all  men  perceive  that  they  have  riches,  and  that 
their  faces  shine  as  the  faces  of  angels. 

"  Suddenly  it  comes  to  pass  that  one  day  a  golden 
path  leads  them  farther  than  they  have  ever  gone  be- 
fore, and  into  a  vast  chamber,  too  vast  to  be  measured. 
Its  walls,  although  they  are  of  gold,  are  also  like  crys- 
tal. This  is  a  mystery.  Only  three  sides  are  walled. 
The  fourth  side  is  the  opening  of  a  gallery  which 
stretches  away  and  away,  golden  like  a  broad  sun- 
beam :  from  out  the  distance  comes  the  sound  of 
rushing  waters ;  however  far  they  walk  in  that  gal- 
lery, still  the  golden  sunbeam  stretches  before  them  j 
still  the  sound  of  the  waters  is  no  nearer :  and  so 
would  the  sunbeam  and  the  sound  of  the  waters  be 
forever,  for  they  are  Eternity. 

"  But  there  is  a  fourth  mystery.  On  the  walls  af 
crystal  gold,  on  all  sides,  shine  faces ;  not  dead  faces, 
not  pictured  faces  j  living  faces  —  warm,  smiling,  re- 
flected faces. 

"  Then  it  is  revealed  to  the  two  who  walk  hand  in 
hand  that  these  are  the  faces  of  all  who  have  ever  en- 
tered in,  as  they,  between  the  walls  of  crystal  gold ; 
flashing  faces  of  the  sons  of  God  looking  into  eyes  of 
earthly  women  ;  —  these  were  the  first :  and  after  them, 
all  in  their  generations  until  to-day,  the  sons  of  men 
with  the  women  they  have  loved.  The  men's  faces 
smile  ;  but  the  faces  of  the  women  have  in  them  a 
joy  greater  than  a  smile. 

"  Presently  the  two  who  walk  hand  in  hand  see 
their  own  faces  added  to  the  others,  with  the  same 
smile,  the  same  joy ;  and  it  is  revealed  to  them  that 


340  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

these  faces  are  immortal.  Through  all  eternity  they 
will  shine  on  the  walls  of  crystal  gold  ;  and  those  who 
have  once  looked  on  them  can  never  more  see  in  each 
other  change  or  loss  of  beauty. 

"  If  as  they  walk  there,  in  the  broad  sunbeam,  an 
angel  meets  them,  bearing  the  tokens  of  a  golden 
bowl  that  is  broken  and  a  silver  cord  that  is  unloosed, 
they  follow  him  without  grief  or  fear,  thinking  on  that 
chamber  of  crystal  gold  ! 

"  Good-by,  darling ! 

"  Esther." 

The  third  letter  was  written  three  years  after  this 
one.  Sadness  was  beginning  to  cloud  the  free,  joyous 
outpourings  of  Esther's  heart.  Probably  this  sadness 
was  one  of  the  first  symptoms  of  the  failure  of  her 
health.  It  was  from  this  letter  chiefly — although 
there  were  expressions  in  others  which  deepened  the 
impression  —  that  we  inferred  that  her  lover  had  tried 
to  stimulate  in  her  an  intellectual  ambition. 

"  Wednesday  Evening. 
"Dear  One  :  —  Your  last  letter  gave  me  great  pain. 
It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you  looking  so  earnestly 
and  expectantly  into  my  future.  Beloved,  that  I  have 
grown  and  developed  so  much  in  the  last  seven  years 
is  no  proof  that  I  can  still  keep  on  growing.  If  you 
understood,  darling,  you  would  see  that  it  is  just  the 
other  way.  I  have  grown  year  by  year,  hour  by  hour, 
because  hour  by  hour  I  have  loved  you  more.  That 
•s  all !  I  have  felt  the  growth.  I  know  it,  as  clearly 
as  you  do.     But  I  know  the  secret  of  it  as  you  do 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.         34 1 

not  j  and  I  know  the  limit  of  it,  as  you  cannot.  I 
cannot  love  you  more,  precious  one  !  Neither  would  I 
if  I  could  !  One  heart-beat  more  in  a  minute,  and  I 
should  die !  But  all  that  you  have  so  much  loved  and 
cared  for,  dear,  calling  it  intellectual  growth  and  ex- 
pansion in  me,  has  been  only  the  clearing,  refining, 
and  stimulating  of  every  faculty,  every  sense,  by  my 
love  for  you.  When  I  have  said  or  written  a  word 
which  has  pleased  you  thus,  if  there  were  any  special 
fitness  or  eloquence  in  the  word,  it  was  only  because 
I  sought  after  what  would  best  carry  my  thought  to 
you,  darling  j  what  would  be  best  frame,  best  setting, 
to  keep  the  flowers  or  the  sky  which  I  had  to  see 
alone,  —  to  keep  them  till  you  could  see  them  too! 
Oh,  dear  one,  do  understand  that  there  is  nothing  of 
me  except  my  heart  and  my  love  !  While  they  were 
wonderingly,  tremblingly,  rapturously  growing  within 
me,  under  the  sweet  warmth  of  your  love,  no  wonder 
I  changed  day  by  day.  But,  precious  one,  it  is  ended. 
The  whole  solemn,  steadfast  womanhood  within  me 
recognizes  it.  Beloved  master,  in  one  sense  you  can 
teach  me  no  more  !  I  am  content.  I  desire  nothing. 
One  moment  of  full  consciousness  of  you,  of  life,  of 
your  love,  is  more  than  all  centuries  of  learning,  all 
eternities  of  inspiration.  I  would  rather  at  this  mo- 
ment, dear,  lay  my  cheek  on  your  hand,  and  sit  in  my 
old  place  by  your  knee,  and  feel  myself  the  woman 
you  have  made  me^  than  know  all  that  God  knows, 
and  make  a  universe  ! 

"  Beloved,  do  not  say  such  things  to  me  any  more ; 
and  whenever  you  feel  such  ambition  and  hope  stirring 
in  your  heart,  read  over  this  little  verse,  and  be  sure 


342  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

that  your  child  knew  what  she  said   when  she  wrote 

it:  — 

"the  end  of  harvest. 

"  O  Love,  who  walkest  slow  among  my  sheaves, 
Smiling  at  tint  and  shape,  thy  smile  of  peace, 
But  whispering  of  the  next  sweet  year's  increase,  — 
O  tender  Love,  thy  loving  hope  but  grieves 
My  heart !     I  rue  my  harvest,  if  it  leaves 
Thee  vainly  waiting  after  harvests  cease, 
Like  one  who  has  been  mocked  by  title  lease 
To  barren  fields. 

Deas  jne,  my  word  deceives 
Thee  never.     Hearts  one  summer  have.     Their  grain 
*  Is  sown  not  that  which  shall  be  ! ' 

Can  new  paJu 
Teach  me  of  pain  ?     Or  any  ecstasy 
Be  new,  that  I  should  speak  its  name  again  ? 
My  darling,  all  there  was  or  is  of  me 
Is  harvested  for  thine  Eternity  ! 

Esther." 

The  fourth  letter  was  the  one  which  Princess  had 
found,  the  first  which  my  uncle  had  read  —  Esther's 
farewell  to  her  lover  before  going  abroad.  No  won- 
der that  it  so  moved  him  ! 

"  Sunday  Night. 
"  My  Darling  :  —  I  implore  you  not  to  come. 
Have  I  not  loved  you  enough,  all  these  years  long, 
for  you  to  trust  me,  and  believe  that  it  is  only  because 
I  love  you  so  much  that  I  cannot,  cannot  see  you 
now  ?  Dear,  did  I  ever  before  ask  you  to  forego  your 
wish  for  mine  ?  Did  I  ever  before  withhold  anything 
from  you,  my  darling.?  Ah,  love,  you  know  —  oh, 
bow  well  you  know,  that  always,  in  every  blissful  mo- 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.         343 

ment  we  have  spent  together,  my  bliss  has  been 
shadowed  by  a  little,  interrupted  by  a  little,  because 
my  soul  was  forever  restlessly  asking,  seeking,  long- 
ing, for  one  more  joy,  delight,  rapture,  to  give  to  you  ! 

"  Now  listen,  darling.  You  say  it  is  almost  a  year 
since  we  met ;  true,  but  if  it  were  yesterday,  would  you 
remember  it  any  more  clearly  ?  Why,  my  precious  one, 
I  can  see  over  again  at  this  moment  each  little  move- 
ment which  you  made,  each  look  your  face  wore;  I  can 
hear  every  word ;  I  can  feel  every  kiss ;  very  solemn 
kisses  they  were  too,  love,  as  if  we  had  known. 

"  You  say  we  may  never  meet  again.  True.  But  if 
that  is  to  be  so,  all  the  more  I  choose  to  leave  with 
you  the  memory  of  the  face  you  saw  then,  rather  than 
of  the  one  you  would  see  to-day.  Be  compassionate, 
darling,  and  spare  me  the  pain  of  seeing  your  pain 
at  sight  of  my  poor  changed  face.  I  hope  it  is  not 
vanity,  love,  which  makes  me  feel  this  so  strongly. 
Being  so  clearly  and  calmly  conscious  as  I  am  that 
very  possibly  my  earthly  days  are  near  their  end,  it 
does  not  seem  as  if  mere  vanity  could  linger  in  my 
soul.  And  you  know  you  have  always  said,  dearest, 
that  I  had  none.  I  know  I  have  always  wondered  un- 
speakably that  you  could  find  pleasure  in  my  face,  ex- 
cept occasionally,  when  I  have  felt,  as  it  were,  a  great 
sudden  glow  and  throb  of  love  quicken  and  heat  it  un- 
der your  gaze  ;  then,  as  I  have  looked  up  in  your  eyes, 
I  have  sometimes  had  a  flash  of  consciousness  of  a 
transfiguration  in  the  very  flesh  of  my  face,  just  as  I 
tave  a  sense  of  rap':urous  strength  sometimes  in  the 
very  flesh  and  bone  of  my  right  hand,  when  I  strike 
Dn    the   piano   some  of   Beethoven's    chords.     But  I 


344  SAKE  HO  LAPS  STORIES. 

know  that,  except  in  the  light  of  your  presence,  I  have 
no  beauty.  I  had  not  so  much  to  lose  by  illness  as 
other  women.  But,  dear  one,  that  little  is  gone.  I 
can  read  in  the  pitying  looks  of  all  my  friends  how 
altered  I  am.  Even  if  I  did  not  see  it  with  my  own 
eyes,  I  should  read  it  in  theirs.  And  1  cannot — oh, 
I  cannot  read  it  in  yours  ! 

"  If  I  knew  any  spell  which  could  make  you  forget 
all  except  some  one  rare  moment  in  which  you  said  in 
your  heart/she  never  looked  so  lovely  before  ! '  oh,  how 
firmly  I  would  bind  you  by  it !  All  the  weary  indiffer- 
ent, or  unhappy  looks,  love,  I  would  blot  out  from  your 
memory,  and  have  the  thought  of  me  raise  but  one 
picture  in  your  mind.  I  would  have  it  as  if  I  had 
died,  and  left  of  my  face  no  record  on  earth  except 
one  wonderful  picture  by  some  great  master,  who  had 
caught  the  whole  beauty  of  the  one  rarest  moment  of 
my  life.  Darling,  if  you  look  back,  you  will  find  that 
moment ;  for  it  must  have  been  in  your  arms  ;  and  let 
Love  be  the  master  who  will  paint  the  immortal  pic- 
ture ! 

"As  for  this  thin,  pale,  listless  body,  which  just 
now  answers  to  the  name  of  me,  there  is  nothing  in 
or  about  it  which  you  know.  Presently  it  will  be 
carried  like  a  half-lifeless  thing  on  board  a  ship  ;  the 
winds  will  blow  roughly  on  it,  and  it  will  not  care.  If 
God  wills,  darling,  I  will  come  back  to  you  well  and 
strong.  If  I  cannot  come  well  and  strong,  I  hope 
never  to  come  at  all. 

"  Don't  call  me  cruel.  You  would  feel  the  same. 
[  also  should  combat  the  resolve  in  you,  as  you  do 
in  me.  But  in  my  heart  I  should  understand.  I 
should  sympathize,  and  I  should  yield. 


ESTHER    WYNN'S   LOVE-LETTERS.         345 

"God  bless  you,  darling.  I  believe  He  will,  for  the 
infinite  goodness  of  your  life.  I  thank  Him  daily  that 
He  has  given  it  to  me  to  bless  you  a  Httle.  If  I  had 
seen  you  to  say  farewell,  my  beloved,  I  should  not 
have  kissed  you  many  times,  as  has  been  our  wont. 
That  is  for  hours  of  joy.  I  should  have  kissed  you 
three  times  —  only  three  times  —  on  your  beautiful, 
strong,  gentle  lips,  and  each  kiss  would  have  been  a 
separate  sacrament,  with  a  bond  of  its  own.  I  send 
them  to  you  here,  love,  and  this  is  what  they  mean  I 

"  THREE   KISSES   OF   FAREWELL. 

"  Three,  only  three  my  darling, 

Separate,  solemn,  slow ; 
Not  like  the  swift  and  joyous  ones 

We  used  to  know 
When  we  kissed  because  we  loved  each  other 

Simply  to  taste  love's  sweet, 
And  lavished  our  kisses  as  the  summer 

Lavishes  heat,  — 
But  as  they  kiss  whose  hearts  are  wrung, 

When  hope  and  fear  are  spent, 
And  nothing  is  left  to  give,  except 

A  sacrament ! 

"  First  of  the  three,  my  darling, 

Is  sacred  unto  pain  ; 
We  have  hurt  each  other  often  ; 

We  shall  again, 
When  we  pine  because  we  miss  eacn  oitiei, 

And  do  not  understand 
How  the  written  words  are  so  much  coidei 

Than  eye  and  hand. 
I  kiss  thee,  dear,  for  all  such  pain 

Which  we  may  give  or  take  ; 
Buried,  forgiven,  before  it  comes 

For  our  love's  sake  ! 


346  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

**  The  second  kiss,  my  darling, 

Is  full  of  joy's  sweet  thrill ; 
We  have  blessed  each  other  always  ; 

We  always  will. 
We  shall  reach  until  we  feel  each  other, 

Past  all  of  time  and  space  ; 
We  shall  listen  till  we  hear  each  other 

In  every  place  ; 
The  earth  is  full  of  messengers, 

Which  love  sends  to  and  fro ; 
I  kiss  thee,  darling,  for  all  joy 

Which  we  shall  know  ! 

"The  last  kiss,  oh,  my  darling, 

My  love  —  I  cannot  see 
Through  my  tears,  as  I  remember 

What  it  may  be. 
We  may  die  and  never  see  each  other, 

Die  with  no  time  to  give 
Any  sign  that  our  hearts  are  faithful 

To  die,  as  live. 
Token  of  what  they  will  not  see 

Who  see  our  parting  breath, 
This  one  last  kiss,  my  darling,  seals 

The  seal  of  death  !  " 


It  was  on  my  sixteenth  birthday  that  I  copiea  uiesc 
Jetters  and  poems  of  Esther  Wynn's.  I  kept  them, 
with  a  few  other  very  precious  things,  in  a  curious 
little  inlaid  box,  which  came  from  Venice,  and  was  so 
old  that  in  many  places  its  sides  were  worm-eaten.  It 
was  one  of  my  choicest  treasures,  and  I  was  never 
separated  from  it. 

When  I  was  twenty  years  old  I  had  been  for  two 
years  a  happy  wife,  for  one  year  a  glad  mother,  and 
had  for  some  time  remembered   Esther   only  in   the 


ESTHER    WYNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.  347 

vague,  passing  way  in  which  happy  souls  recall  old 
shadows  of  the  griefs  of  other  hearts.  As  my  boy  en- 
tered on  a  second  summer  he  began  to  droop  a  little, 
and  the  physician  recommended  that  we  should  take 
him  to  the  sea-side  ;  so  it  came  to  pass  that  on  the 
morning  of  my  twentieth  birthday  I  was  sitting,  with 
my  baby  in  my  arms,  on  a  rocky  sea-shore,  at  one  of 
the  well-known  summer  resorts  of  the  New  Hamp- 
shire coast.  Near  me  sat  a  woman  whose  face  had 
interested  me  strangely  ever  since  my  arrival.  She 
seemed  an  invalid  ;  but  there  was  an  atmosphere  of 
overflowing  vitality  about  her,  in  spite  of  her  feebleness, 
which  made  her  very  presence  stimulating  and  cheer- 
ing to  every  one.  I  had  longed  to  speak  with  her, 
but  as  yet  had  not  done  so.  While  I  sat  watching 
her  face  and  my  baby's,  and  the  face  of  the  sea,  she 
was  joined  by  her  husband,  who  had  just  come  from  a 
walk  in  the  fields,  and  had  brought  her  a  large  bou- 
quet of  red  clover  and  feathery  grasses.  She  took 
it  eagerly  with  great  delight,  and  exclaimed :  — 

"  I  wonder  what  the  Clover  thinks  ? 
Intimate  friend  of  Bob-o-links  !  " 

I  could  not  control  the  sudden  start  with  which  I 
heard  these  words.  Who  was  this  that  knew  Esther 
Wynn's  verses  by  heart  t  I  could  hardly  refrain  from 
speaking  to  her  at  once,  and  betraying  all.  But  I 
reflected  instantly  that  I  must  be  very  cautious  ;  it 
would  be  almost  impossible  to  find  out  what  I  longed 
to  know  without  revealing  how  my  own  acquaintance 
with  the  verses  had  come  about.  Days  passed  before 
I  ventured  to  allude  to  the  subject ;  but  one  evenings 


348  SAXE   HOLM'S  STORIES. 

as  we  were  walking  together,  she  stooped  and  pickea 
a  clover-blossom,  and  said,  — 

"  I  really  think  I  love  red  clover  better  than  any 
wild  flower  we  have." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  I,  "  when  I  saw  you  take  that 
big  bunch  your  husband  brought  you  the  other  morn- 
ing. That  was  before  I  knew  you :  I  felt  almost  rude, 
I  watched  you  so,  in  spite  of  myself." 

"  But  I  had  watched  you  quite  as  much,"  said  she, 
smiling ;  "  I  thought  then  of  giving  you  a  part  of  the 
clover.  Edward  always  brings  me  huge  bouquets  of 
it  every  day;  he  knows  so  well  how  I  love  it." 

"  I  heard  you  quote  a  little  couplet  of  verse  about  it 
then,"  said  I,  looking  away  from  her,  that  she  might 
not  see  my  face :  "  I  was  so  near  you  I  could  not  help 
hearing  what  you  said." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  she, 

"  '  I  wonder  what  the  Clover  thinks  ? 
Intimate  friend  of  Bob-o-links  '  — 

"  I  do  not  know  but  that  old  clover-song  is  the  real 
reason  I  love  clover  so.  My  mother  taught  it  to  me 
when  I  was  a  little  child.  It  is  all  very  quaint  and 
sweet.     Would  you  like  to  hear  it  ? " 

I  felt  myself  color  scarlet,  but  I  replied, — 

"  Oh,  yes,  pray  repeat  it." 

When  she  had  repeated  the  verses  she  went  on 
speaking,  to  my  great  relief,  saving  me  from  the 
necessity  of  saying  anything. 

"That  was  written  a  great  many  years  ago,  by  an 
aunt  x>f  my  mother's.  My  mother  has  a  little  manu- 
icript  book  bound  in   red  morocco,  very  faded  and 


£STff£A'    l^VNN'S  LOVE-LETTERS.  349 

worn,  which  my  grandmother  kept  on  her  bureau  till 
she  died,  last  year  ;  and  it  has  in  it  this  little  clover- 
song  and  several  others,  with  Aunt  Esther's  diary 
while  she  was  abroad.  She  died  abroad  ;  died  in 
Jerusalem,  and  was  buried  there.  There  was  some- 
thing mysteriously  sad  in  her  life,  I  think  :  grand- 
mother always  sighed  when  she  spoke  of  her,  and 
used  to  read  in  the  little  red  book  every  day.  She 
was  only  her  half-sister,  but  she  said  she  loved  her 
better  than  she  did  any  sister  of  her"  own.  Once  I 
asked  grandmamma  to  tell  me  about  her,  but  she 
said,  'There  is  nothing  to  tell,  child.  She  was  never 
married  :  she  died  the  autumn  before  your  mother 
was  born,  and  your  mother  looked  very  much  like 
her  when  she  was  young.  She  is  like  her,  too,  in 
many  ways, '  and  that  was  all  grandmamma  would 
ever  say.  But  we  always  called  her  Aunt  Esther,  and 
know  all  her  verses  by  hearty  and  the  diary  was  fasci- 
nating. It  seems  strange  to  read  such  vivid  written 
records  of  people  you  never  saw  ;  don't  you  think 
so?" 

"Yes,  it  must,  very,"  said  I. 

She  went  on :  "I  always  had  a  very  special  love 
for  this  old  Aunt  Esther,  which  I  could  hardly  account 
for.  I  am  to  have  the  little  red  book  when  my  mother 
dies  ;  and  "  —  she  hesitated  a  moment  —  "  and  I 
named  my  first  baby  for  her,  Esther  Wynn.  The 
baby  only  lived  to  be  a  few  weeks  old,  and  I  often 
think,  as  I  look  at  her  little  grave-stone,  of  the  other 
ane,  so  many  thousand  miles  away,  alone  in  a  strange 
and,  bearing  the  same  name." 

On  my  way  home  I  stopped  for  a  few  days'  visit  at 


350  SAKE  HOLM'S  STORIES. 

Uncle  Jo's.  Late  one  night,  sitting  in  my  old  place 
at  his  feet  in  the  library,  I  told  him  this  sequel  to 
the  romance  of  the  letters. 

^'  Oh,  childie,  how  could  you  help  showing  that  you 
knew  about  her  ?  "  said  he.  *'  You  must  have  betrayed 
it." 

''  No,  I  am  sure  I  did  not,"  I  said.  "  I  never  spoke 
about  it  after  that  day,  and  she  was  too  absorbed 
herself  in  the  reminiscences  to  observe  my  excite- 
ment." 

"  What  was  your  friend's  name  ? "  said  Uncle   Jo. 

I  told  him.  He  sprang  from  his  chair,  and  walked 
rapidly  away  to  the  end  of  the  library ;  presently  he 
came  back,  and  standing  before  me,  said,  — 

"  Nell  !  Nell !  your  friend's  mother  is  the  woman  of 
whom  I  once  spoke  to  you  !  I  might  have  known  that 
the  subtle  kinship  I  felt  between  Esther  Wynn  and 
her  was  no  chance  resemblance.  I  never  heard  of 
the  name  'Wynn,'  however.  But  you  said  she  was 
only  a  half-sister ;  that  accounts  for  it.  I  might  have 
known  !  I  might  have  known  !  "  he  exclaimed,  more 
to  himself  than  to  me,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands 
I  stole  away  quietly  and  left  him  ;  but  I  heard  him 
saying  under  his  breath,  '^  Her  aunt !  I  might  have 
known ! " 


•...'    ..,1   .'--  •      -  ^.  .•   •-  ;  fi/"Wf^'  •: 


-*>  »■ 


:tv 


^.^>^ 


5  ir,i 


"';'r^  -t;^f:?' 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


.r 


y»..  --  ^vvvf'ijvv'- 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
608 


*■•<: 


i\y.' 


